JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 


KAZAN 


KAZAN 

BY 

JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL,  ETC. 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

By  arrangement  with  Farrar  &  Rinehart 


COPYRIGHT  1914 
COSMOPOLITAN  BOOK  CORPORATION 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


I    THE  MIRACLE      ...••••  1 

II    Ixro  THE  NORTH        ..»•••  9 

III  McCREADY  PATS  THE  DEBT                 •        •        •  Ifr 

IV  FREF  FROM  BOXDS      ...•••  33 
V    THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW                     .        •        •  65 

VI    JOAN          ........  67 

VII    OUT  OF  THE  BUZZARD        .        .        •        •        •  86 

VIII    THE  GREAT  CHANGE 101 

IX    THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK      ....  Ill 

X   THE  DATS  OF  FIRE     ......  126 

XI    ALWAYS  Two  BT  Two 140 

XII    THE  RED  DEATH 158 

XIII  THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER 174 

XIV  THE  RIGHT  OF  FANG                   .        «        .        .  186 
XV    A  FIGHT  UNDER  THE  STARS       ....  193 

XVI    THE  CALL fOt 

XVII    His  SON 218 

XVIII    THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE         ....  229 

XIX   THE  USURPERS 943 

XX    A  FEUD  is  THE  WILDERNESS       ....  254 

XXI    A  SHOT  ON  THE  SAND-BAR         ....  27& 

XXII    SANDY'S  METHOD 287 

XXIII  PROFESSOR  McGiu. ,  30C 

XXIV  ALONE  IN  DARKNESS           •        •        •        .        »  398 
XXV    THE  LAST  OF  McTaiGGZR  .        ....  316 

XXVI    AN  EMPTY  WORLD     ......  388 

XXVII    THE  CALL  OF  SCN  ROCK     .....  334 


1731750 


KAZAN 


KAZAN 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  MIRACLE 

KAZAN  lay  mute  and  motionless,  his  gray 
nose  between  his  forepaws,  his  eyes  half 
closed.  A  rock  could  have  appeared  scarcely 
less  lifeless  than  he;  not  a  muscle  twitched;  not 
a  hair  moved;  not  an  eyelid  quivered.  Yet 
every  drop  of  the  wild  blood  in  his  splendid 
body  was  racing  in  a  ferment  of  excitement  that 
Kazan  had  never  before  experienced;  every 
nerve  and  fiber  of  his  wonderful  muscles  was 
tense  as  steel  wire.  Quarter-strain  wolf, 
three-quarters  "husky,"  he  had  lived  the  four 
years  of  his  life  in  the  wilderness.  He  had 
felt  the  pangs  of  starvation.  He  knew  what  it 
meant  to  freeze.  He  had  listened  to  the  wail- 
ing winds  of  the  long  Arctic  night  over  the 
barrens.  He  had  heard  the  thunder  of  the 
torrent  and  the  cataract,  and  had  cowered  un- 
der the  mighty  crash  of  the  storm.  His  throat 


2  KAZAN 

and  sides  were  scarred  by  battle,  and  his  eyes 
were  red  with  the  blister  of  the  snows.  He 
was  called  Kazan,  the  Wild  Dog,  because  he 
was  a  giant  among  his  kind  and  as  fearless, 
even,  as  the  men  who  drove  him  through  the 
perils  of  a  frozen  world. 

He  had  never  known  fear — until  now.  He 
had  never  felt  in  him  before  the  desire  to  run 
— not  even  on  that  terrible  day  in  the  forest 
when  he  had  fought  and  killed  the  big  gray 
lynx.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  that 
frightened  him,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  in 
another  world,  and  that  many  things  in  it 
startled  and  alarmed  him.  It  was  his  first 
glimpse  of  civilization.  He  wished  that  his 
master  would  come  back  into  the  strange  room 
where  he  had  left  him.  It  was  a  room  filled 
with  hideous  things.  There  were  great  human 
faces  on  the  wall,  but  they  did  not  move  or 
speak,  but  stared  at  him  in  a  way  he  had  nevei 
seen  people  look  before.  He  remembered  hav- 
ing looked  on  a  master  who  lay  very  quiet  and 
very  cold  in  the  snow,  and  he  had  sat  back  on 
his  haunches  and  wailed  forth  the  death  song; 
but  these  people  on  the  walls  looked  alive,  and 
yet  seemed  dead. 


THE  MIRACLE  3 

Suddenly  Kazan  lifted  his  ears  a  little.  He 
heard  steps,  then  low  voices.  One  of  them  was 
his  master's  voice.  But  the  other — it  sent  a 
little  tremor  through  him!  Once,  so  long  ago 
that  it  must  have  been  in  his  puppyhood 
days,  he  seemed  to  have  had  a  dream  of  a  laugh 
that  was  like  the  girl's  laugh — a  laugh  that  was 
all  at  once  filled  with  a  wonderful  happiness, 
the  thrill  of  a  wonderful  love,  and  a  sweetness 
that  made  Kazan  lift  his  head  as  they  came  in. 
He  looked  straight  at  them,  his  red  eyes  gleam- 
ing. At  once  he  knew  that  she  must  be  dear 
to  his  master,  for  his  master's  arm  was  about 
her.  In  the  glow  of  the  light  he  saw  that  her 
hair  was  very  bright,  and  that  there  was  the 
color  of  the  crimson  bakneesh  vine  in  her  face 
and  the  blue  of  the  bakneesh  flower  in  her  shin- 
ing eyes.  Suddenly  she  saw  him,  and  with  a 
little  cry  darted  toward  him. 

"Stop!"  shouted  the  man.  "He's  danger- 
ous! Kazan — " 

She  was  on  her  knees  beside  him,  all  fluffy 
and  sweet  and  beautiful,  her  eyes  shining 
wonderfully,  her  hands  about  to  touch  him. 
Should  he  cringe  back?  Should  he  snap? 
Was  she  one  of  the  things  on  the  wall,  and  his 


4  KAZAN 

enemy?  Should  he  leap  at  her  white  throat? 
He  saw  the  man  running  forward,  pale  as 
death.  Then  her  hand  fell  upon  his  head  and 
the  touch  sent  a  thrill  through  him  that  quivered 
in  every  nerve  of  his  body.  With  both  hands 
she  turned  up  his  head.  Her  face  was  very 
close,  and  he  heard  her  say,  almost  sobbingly: 

"And  you  are  Kazan — dear  old  Kazan,  my 
Kazan,  my  hero  dog — who  brought  him  home 
to  me  when  all  the  others  had  died!  My 
Kazan — my  herol" 

And  then,  miracle  of  miracles,  her  face  was 
crushed  down  against  him,  and  he  felt  her 
fweet  warm  touch. 

In  those  moments  Kazan  did  not  move.  He 
scarcely  breathed.  It  seemed  a  long  time  be- 
fore the  girl  lifted  her  face  from  him.  And 
when  she  did,  there  were  tears  in  her  blue 
eyes,  and  the  man  was  standing  above  them,  his 
hands  gripped  tight,  his  jaws  set. 

"I  never  knew  him  to  let  any  one  touch  him 
• — with  their  naked  hand,"  he  said  in  a  tense 
wondering  voice.  "Move  back  quietly,  Isobel. 
Good  heaven — look  at  that!" 

Kazan  whined  softly,  his  bloodshot  eyes  on 
the  girl's  face.  He  wanted  to  feel  her  hand 


THE  MIRACLE  5 

again;  he  wanted  to  touch  her  face.  Would 
they  beat  him  with  a  club,  he  wondered,  if  he 
dared!  He  meant  no  harm  now.  He  would 
kill  for  her.  He  cringed  toward  her,  inch  by 
inch,  his  eyes  never  faltering.  He  heard  what 
the  man  said — "Good  heaven!  Look  at 
that!" — and  he  shuddered.  But  no  blow  fell 
to  drive  him  back.  His  cold  muzzle  touched 
her  filmy  dress,  and  she  looked  at  him,  without 
moving,  her  wet  eyes  blazing  like  stars. 

"See!"  she  whispered.    "See!" 

Half  an  inch  more — an  inch,  two  inches,  and 
he  gave  his  big  gray  body  a  hunch  toward  her. 
Now  his  muzzle  traveled  slowly  upward — over 
her  foot,  to  her  lap,  and  at  last  touched  the 
warm  little  hand  that  lay  there.  His  eyes  were 
still  on  her  face:  he  saw  a  queer  throbbing  in 
her  bare  white  throat,  and  then  a  trembling  of 
her  h'ps  as  she  looked  up  at  the  man  with  a 
wonderful  look.  He,  too,  knelt  down  beside 
them,  and  put  his  arm  about  the  girl  again, 
and  patted  the  dog  on  his  head.  Kazan  did 
not  like  the  man's  touch.  He  mistrusted  it, 
as  nature  had  taught  him  to  mistrust  the  touch 
of  all  men's  hands,  but  he  permitted  it  because 
he  saw  that  it  in  some  way  pleased  the  girl. 


0  KAZAN 

"Kazan,  old  boy,  you  wouldn't  hurt  her, 
would  you?"  said  his  master  softly.  "We 
both  love  her,  don't  we,  boy?  Can't  help  it, 
can  we?  And  she's  ours,  Kazan,  all  ours! 
She  belongs  to  you  and  to  me,  and  we're  going 
to  take  care  of  her  all  our  lives,  and  if  we  ever 
have  to  we'll  fight  for  her  like  hell — won't  we? 
Eh,  Kazan,  old  boy?" 

For  a  long  time  after  they  left  him  where 
he  was  lying  on  the  rug,  Kazan's  eyes  did  not 
leave  the  girl.  He  watched  and  listened — 
and  all  the  time  there  grew  more  and  more  in 
him  the  craving  to  creep  up  to  them  and  touch 
the  girl's  hand,  or  her  dress,  or  her  foot.  After 
a  time  his  master  said  something,  and  with  a 
little  laugh  the  girl  jumped  up  and  ran  to  a 
big,  square,  shining  thing  that  stood  cross- 
wise in  a  corner,  and  which  had  a  row  of  white 
teeth  longer  than  his  own  body.  He  had  won- 
dered what  those  teeth  were  for.  The  girl's 
fingers  touched  them  now,  and  all  the  whisper- 
ing of  winds  that  he  had  ever  heard,  all  the 
music  of  the  waterfalls  and  the  rapids  and  the 
trilling  of  birds  in  spring-time,  could  not  equal 
the  sounds  they  made.  It  was  his  first  music. 
For  a  moment  it  startled  and  frightened  him, 


THE  MIRACLE  J 

and  then  he  felt  the  fright  pass  away  and  a 
strange  tingling  in  his  body.  He  wanted  to 
sit  back  on  his  haunches  and  howl,  as  he  had 
howled  at  the  billion  stars  in  the  skies  on  cold 
winter  nights.  But  something  kept  him  from 
doing  that.  It  was  the  girl.  Slowly  he  began 
slinking  toward  her.  He  felt  the  eyes  of  the 
man  upon  him,  and  stopped.  Then  a  little 
more — inches  at  a  time,  with  his  throat  and  jaw 
straight  out  along  the  floor!  He  was  half-way 
to  her — half-way  across  the  room — when  the 
wonderful  sounds  grew  very  soft  and  very  low. 

"Go  on!"  he  heard  the  man  urge  in  a  low 
quick  voice.  "Go  on!  Don't  stop!" 

The  girl  turned  her  head,  saw  Kazan  cring- 
ing there  on  the  floor,  and  continued  to  play. 
The  man  was  still  looking,  but  his  eyes  could 
not  keep  Kazan  back  now.  He  went  nearer, 
still  nearer,  until  at  last  his  outreaching  muzzle 
touched  her  dress  where  it  lay  piled  on  the 
floor.  And  then — he  lay  trembling,  for  she 
had  begun  to  sing.  He  had  heard  a  Cree 
woman  crooning  in  front  of  her  tepee;  he  had 
heard  the  wild  chant  of  the  caribou  song — 
but  he  had  never  heard  anything  like  this  won- 
derful sweetness  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 


8  KAZAN 

girl.  He  forgot  his  master's  presence  now. 
Quietly,  cringingly,  so  that  she  would  not 
know,  he  lifted  his  head.  He  saw  her  looking 
at  him;  there  was  something  in  her  wonderful 
eyes  that  gave  him  confidence,  and  he  laid  his 
head  in  her  lap.  For  the  second  time  he  felt 
the  touch  of  a  woman's  hand,  and  he  closed 
his  eyes  with  a  long  sighing  breath.  The  mu- 
sic stopped.  There  came  a  little  fluttering 
sound  above  him,  like  a  laugh  and  a  sob  in  one. 
He  heard  his  master  cough. 

"I've  always  loved  the  old  rascal — but  I 
never  thought  he'd  do  that,"  he  said;  and  his 
voice  sounded  queer  to  Kazan. 


CHAPTER  II 

INTO    THE    NORTH 

WONDERFUL  days  followed  for 
Kazan.  He  missed  the  forests  and 
deep  snows.  He  missed  the  daily  strife  of 
keeping  his  team-mates  in  trace,  the  yapping 
at  his  heels,  the  straight  long  pull  over  the 
open  spaces  and  the  barrens.  He  missed  the 
"Koosh — koosh — Hoo-yah!"  of  the  driver,  the 
spiteful  snap  of  his  twenty-foot  caribou-gut 
whip,  and  that  yelping  and  straining  behind 
him  that  told  him  he  had  his  followers  in  line. 
But  something  had  come  to  take  the  place  of 
that  which  he  missed.  It  was  in  the  room,  in 
the  air  all  about  him,  even  when  the  girl  or 
his  master  was  not  near.  Wherever  she  had 
been,  he  found  the  presence  of  that  strange 
thing  that  took  away  his  loneliness.  It  was  the 
woman  scent,  and  sometimes  it  made  him  whine 
softly  when  the  girl  herself  was  actually  with 
him.  He  was  not  lonely,  nights,  when  he 


10  KAZAN 

should  have  been  out  howling  at  the  stars.  He 
was  not  lonely,  because  one  night  he  prowled 
about  until  he  found  a  certain  door,  and  when 
the  girl  opened  that  door  in  the  morning  she 
found  him  curled  up  tight  against  it.  She  had 
reached  down  and  hugged  him,  the  thick 
smother  of  her  long  hair  falling  all  over  him 
in  a  delightful  perfume;  thereafter  she  placed 
a  rug  before  the  door  for  him  to  sleep  on. 
All  through  the  long  nights  he  knew  that  she 
was  just  beyond  the  door,  and  he  was  content. 
Each  day  he  thought  less  and  less  of  the  wild 
places,  and  more  of  her. 

Then  there  came  the  beginning  of  the 
change.  There  was  a  strange  hurry  and  ex- 
citement around  him,  and  the  girl  paid  less  at- 
tention to  him.  He  grew  uneasy.  He  sniffed 
the  change  in  the  air,  and  he  began  to  study 
his  master's  face.  Then  there  came  the  morn- 
ing, very  early,  when  the  babiche  collar  and  the 
iron  chain  were  fastened  to  him  again.  Not 
until  he  had  followed  his  master  out  through 
the  door  and  into  the  street  did  he  begin  to 
understand.  They  were  sending  him  away! 
He  sat  suddenly  back  on  his  haunches  and  re- 
fused to  budge. 


INTO  THE  NORTH  11 

"Come,  Kazan,"  coaxed  the  man.  "Come 
on,  boy." 

He  hung  back  and  showed  his  white  fangs, 
He  expected  the  lash  of  a  whip  or  the  blow 
of  a  club,  but  neither  came.  His  master 
laughed  and  took  him  back  to  the  house. 
When  they  left  it  again,  the  girl  was  with 
them  and  walked  with  her  hand  touching  his 
head.  It  was  she  who  persuaded  him  to  leap 
up  through  a  big  dark  hole  into  the  still  darker 
interior  of  a  car,  and  it  was  she  who  lured  him 
to  the  darkest  corner  of  all,  where  his  master 
fastened  his  chain.  Then  they  went  out, 
laughing  like  two  children.  For  hours  after 
that,  Kazan  lay  still  and  tense,  listening  to 
the  queer  rumble  of  wheels  under  him.  Sev- 
eral times  those  wheels  stopped,  and  he  heard 
voices  outside.  At  last  he  was  sure  that  he 
heard  a  familiar  voice,  and  he  strained  at  his 
chain  and  whined.  The  closed  door  slid  back. 
A  man  with  a  lantern  climbed  in,  followed  by 
his  master.  He  paid  no  attention  to  them,  but 
glared  out  through  the  opening  into  the  gloom 
of  night.  He  almost  broke  loose  when  he 
leaped  down  upon  the  white  snow,  but  when 
he  saw  no  one  there,  he  stood  rigid,  sniffing 


12  KAZAN 

the  air.  Over  him  were  the  stars  he  had  howled 
at  all  his  life,  and  about  him  were  the  forests, 
black  and  silent,  shutting  them  in  like  a  wall. 
Vainly  he  sought  for  that  one  scent  that  was 
missing,  and  Thorpe  heard  the  low  note  of 
grief  in  his  shaggy  throat.  He  took  the  lan- 
tern and  held  it  above  his  head,  at  the  same  time 
loosening  his  hold  on  the  leash.  At  that  signal 
there  came  a  voice  from  out  of  the  night.  It 
came  from  behind  them,  and  Kazan  whirled  so 
suddenly  that  the  loosely  held  chain  slipped 
from  the  man's  hand.  He  saw  the  glow  of 
other  lanterns.  And  then,  once  more,  the 
voice — 

"Kaa-aa-zan !" 

He  was  off  like  a  bolt.  Thorpe  laughed  to 
himself  as  he  followed. 

"The  old  pirate!"  he  chuckled. 

When  he  came  to  the  lantern-lighted  space 
back  of  the  caboose,  Thorpe  found  Kazan 
crouching  down  at  a  woman's  feet.  It  was 
Thorpe's  wife.  She  smiled  triumphantly  at 
Mm  as  he  came  up  out  of  the  gloom. 

"You've  won  I"  he  laughed,  not  unhappily. 
"I'd  have  wagered  my  last  dollar  he  wouldn't 


INTO  THE  NORTH  1» 

do  that  for  any  voice  on  earth.  You've  won! 
Kazan,  you  brute,  I've  lost  you!" 

His  face  suddenly  sobered  as  Isobel  stooped 
to  pick  up  the  end  of  the  chain. 

"He's  yours,  Issy,"  he  added  quickly,  "but 
you  must  let  me  care  for  him  until — we  know. 
Give  me  the  chain.  I  won't  trust  him  even 
now.  He's  a  wolf.  I've  seen  him  take  an 
Indian's  hand  off  at  a  single  snap.  I've  seen 
him  tear  out  another  dog's  jugular  in  one  leap. 
He's  an  outlaw — a  bad  dog — in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  hung  to  me  like  a  hero  and  brought 
me  out  alive.  I  can't  trust  him.  Give  me  the 
chain — " 

He  did  not  finish.  With  the  snarl  of  a  wild 
beast  Kazan  had  leaped  to  his  feet.  His  lips 
drew  up  and  bared  his  long  fangs.  His  spine 
stiffened,  and  with  a  sudden  cry  of  warning, 
Thorpe  dropped  a  hand  to  the  revolver  at  his 
belt. 

Kazan  paid  no  attention  to  him.  Another 
form  had  approached  out  of  the  night,  and 
stood  now  in  the  circle  of  illumination  made  by 
the  lanterns.  It  was  McCready,  who  was  to 
accompany  Thorpe  and  his  young  wife  back  to 


]4  KAZAN 

the  Red  River  camp,  where  Thorpe  was  ID 
charge  of  the  building  of  the  new  Trans-con- 
tinental. The  man  was  straight,  powerfully 
built  and  clean  shaven.  His  jaw  was  so  square 
that  it  was  brutal,  and  there  was  a  glow  in  his 
eyes  that  was  almost  like  the  passion  in  Kazan's 
as  he  looked  at  isobel. 

Her  red  and  white  stocking-cap  had  slipped 
free  of  her  head  and  was  hanging  over  her 
shoulder.  The  dull  blaze  of  the  lanterns 
shone  in  the  warm  glow  of  her  hair.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  eyes,  suddenly 
turned  to  him,  were  as  blue  as  the  bluest 
bdkneesh  flower  and  glowed  like  diamonds. 
McCready  shifted  his  gaze,  and  instantly  her 
hand  fell  on  Kazan's  head.  For  the  first  time 
the  dog  did  not  seem  to  feel  her  touch.  He 
still  snarled  at  McCready,  the  rumbling  menace 
in  his  throat  growing  deeper.  Thorpe's  wife 
tugged  at  the  chain. 

"Down,   Kazan — down!"   she   commanded. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  relaxed. 

"Down!"  she  repeated,  and  her  free  hand  fell 
on  his  head  again.  He  slunk  to  her  feet.  But 
his  lips  were  still  drawn  back.  Thorpe  was 
watching  him.  He  wondered  at  the  deadly 


INTO  THE  NORTH  15 

venom  that  shot  from  the  wolfish  eyes,  and 
looked  at  McCready.  The  big  guide  had  un- 
coiled his  long  dog-whip.  A  strange  look  had 
come  into  his  face.  He  was  staring  hard  at 
Kazan.  Suddenly  he  leaned  forward,  with 
both  hands  on  his  knees,  and  for  a  tense  mo- 
ment or  two  he  seemed  to  forget  that  Isobel 
Thorpe's  wonderful  blue  eyes  were  looking  at 
him. 

"Hoo-koosh,  Pedro — charge!3' 

That  one  word — charge — was  taught  only  to 
the  dogs  in  the  service  of  the  Northwest 
Mounted  Police.  Kazan  did  not  move.  Mc- 
Cready straightened,  and  quick  as  a  shot  sent 
the  long  lash  of  his  whip  curling  out  into  the 
night  with  a  crack  like  a  pistol  report. 

"Charge,  Pedro — charge!" 

The  rumble  in  Kazan's  throat  deepened  to 
a  snarling  growl,  but  not  a  muscle  of  his  body 
moved.  McCready  turned  to  Thorpe. 

"I  could  have  sworn  that  I  knew  that  dog," 
he  said.  "If  it's  Pedro,  he's  bad?' 

Thorpe  was  taking  the  chain.  Only  the  girl 
saw  the  look  that  came  for  an  instant  into  Mc- 
Cready's  face.  It  made  her  shiver.  A  few 
minutes  before,  when  the  train  had  first  stopped 


16  KAZAN 

at  Les  Pas,  she  had  offered  her  hand  to  this 
man  and  she  had  seen  the  same  thing  then. 
But  even  as  she  shuddered  she  recalled  the 
many  things  her  husband  had  told  her  of  the 
forest  people.  She  had  grown  to  love  them,  to 
admire  their  big  rough  manhood  and  loyal 
hearts,  before  he  had  brought  her  among  them; 
and  suddenly  she  smiled  at  McCready,  strug- 
gling to  overcome  that  thrill  of  fear  and  dis- 
like. 

"He  doesn't  like  you,"  she  laughed  at  him 
softly.  "Won't  you  make  friends  with  him?" 

She  drew  Kazan  toward  him,  with  Thorpe 
holding  the  end  of  the  chain.  McCready  came 
to  her  side  as  she  bent  over  the  dog.  His  back 
was  to  Thorpe  as  he  hunched  down.  Isobel's 
bowed  head  was  within  a  foot  of  his  face.  He 
could  see  the  glow  in  her  cheek  and  the  pouting 
curve  of  her  mouth  as  she  quieted  the  low 
rumbling  in  Kazan's  throat.  Thorpe  stood 
ready  to  pull  back  on  the  chain,  but  for  a 
moment  McCready  was  between  him  and  his 
wife,  and  he  could  not  see  McCready's  face. 
The  man's  eyes  were  not  on  Kazan.  He  was 
staring  at  the  girl. 


INTO  THE  NORTH  IT 

"You're  brave,"  he  said.  "I  don't  dare  do 
that.  He  would  take  off  my  hand  1" 

He  took  the  lantern  from  Thorpe  and  led 
the  way  to  a  narrow  snow-path  branching  off 
from  the  track.  Hidden  back  in  the  thick 
spruce  was  the  camp  that  Thorpe  had  left 
a  fortnight  before.  There  were  two  tents 
there  now  in  place  of  the  one  that  he  and  his 
guide  had  used.  A  big  fire  was  burning  in 
front  of  them.  Close  to  the  fire  was  a  long 
sledge,  and  fastened  to  trees  just  within  the 
outer  circle  of  firelight  Kazan  saw  the  shadowy, 
forms  and  gleaming  eyes  of  his  team-mates. 
He  stood  stiff  and  motionless  while  Thorpe 
fastened  him  to  a  sledge.  Once  more  he  was 
back  in  his  forests — and  in  command.  His 
mistress  was  laughing  and  clapping  her  hands 
delightedly  in  the  excitement  of  the  strange 
and  wonderful  life  of  which  she  had  now  be- 
come a  part.  Thorpe  had  thrown  back  the  flap 
of  their  tent,  and  she  was  entering  ahead  of 
him.  She  did  not  look  back.  She  spoke  no 
word  to  him.  He  whined,  and  turned  his  red 
eyes  on  McCready. 

In  the  tent  Thorpe  was  saying: 


18  KAZAN 

"I'm  sorry  old  Jackpine  wouldn't  go  back 
with  us,  Issy.  He  drove  me  down,  but  for 
love  or  money  I  couldn't  get  him  to  return. 
He's  a  Mission  Indian,  and  I'd  give  a  month's 
salary  to  have  you  see  him  handle  the  dogs. 
I'm  not  sure  about  this  man  McCready.  He's 
a  queer  chap,  the  Company's  agent  here  tells 
me,  and  knows  the  woods  like  a  book.  But 
dogs  don't  like  a  stranger.  Kazan  isn't  going 
to  take  to  him  worth  a  centl" 

Kazan  heard  the  girl's  voice,  and  stood  rigid 
and  motionless  listening  to  it.  He  did  not 
hear  or  see  McCready  when  he  came  up  stealth- 
ily behind  him.  The  man's  voice  came  as  sud- 
denly as  a  shot  at  his  heels. 

"Pedro!" 

In  an  instant  Kazan  cringed  as  if  touched 
by  a  lash. 

"Got  you  that  time — didn't  I,  you  old  devil!" 
whispered  McCready,  his  face  strangely  pale  in 
the  firelight.  "Changed  your  name,  eh?  But 
you— didn't  I  ?" 


CHAPTER  III 

MC  CKEADY  PAYS  THE  DEBT 

FOR  a  long  time  after  he  had  uttered  those 
words  McCready  sat  in  silence  beside  the 
fire.  Only  for  a  moment  or  two  at  a  time  did 
his  eyes  leave  Kazan.  After  a  little,  when  he 
was  sure  that  Thorpe  and  Isobel  had  retired  for 
the  night,  he  went  into  his  own  tent  and  re- 
turned with  a  flask  of  whisky.  During  the 
next  half-hour  he  drank  frequently.  Then  he 
went  over  and  sat  on  the  end  of  the  sledge,  just 
beyond  the  reach  of  Kazan's  chain. 

"Got  you,  didn't  I?"  he  repeated,  the  effect 
of  the  liquor  beginning  to  show  in  the  glitter  of 
his  eyes.  "Wonder  who  changed  your  name, 
Pedro.  And  how  the  devil  did  he  come  by 
you?  Ho,  ho,  if  you  could  only  talk — " 

They  heard  Thorpe's  voice  inside  the  tent. 
It  was  followed  by  a  low  girlish  peal  of  laugh= 
ter,  and  McCready  jerked  himself  erect.  His 
face  blazed  suddenly  red,  and  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  dropping  the  flask  in  his  coat  pocket. 

19 


20  KAZAN 

Walking  around  the  fire,  he  tiptoed  cautiously 
to  the  shadow  of  a  tree  close  to  the  tent  and 
stood  there  for  many  minutes  listening.  His 
eyes  burned  with  a  fiery  madness  when  he  re- 
turned to  the  sledge  and  Kazan.  It  was  mid- 
night before  he  went  into  his  own  tent. 

In  the  warmth  of  the  fire,  Kazan's  eyes 
slowly  closed.  He  slumbered  uneasily,  and 
his  brain  was  filled  with  troubled  pictures.  At 
times  he  was  fighting,  and  his  jaws  snapped. 
At  others  he  was  straining  at  the  end  of  his 
chain,  with  McCready  or  his  mistress  just  out 
of  reach.  He  felt  the  gentle  touch  of  the  girl's 
hand  again  and  heard  the  wonderful  sweetness 
of  her  voice  as  she  sang  to  him  and  his  master, 
and  his  body  trembled  and  twitched  with  the 
thrills  that  had  filled  him  that  night.  And 
then  the  picture  changed.  He  was  running  at 
the  head  of  a  splendid  team — six  dogs  of  the 
1  Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police — and  his 
master  was  calling  him  Pedro!  The  scene 
shifted.  They  were  in  camp.  His  master  was 
young  and  smooth-faced  and  he  helped  from 
the  sledge  another  man  whose  hands  were 
fastened  in  front  of  him  by  curious  black  rings. 
Again  it  was  later — and  he  was  lying  before  a 


McCREADY  PAYS  THE  DEBT     21 

great  fire.  His  master  was  sitting  opposite 
him,  with  his  back  to  a  tent,  and  as  he  looked, 
there  came  out  of  the  tent  the  man  with  the 
black  rings — only  now  the  rings  were  gone  and 
his  hands  were  free,  and  in  one  of  them  he  car- 
ried a  heavy  club.  He  heard  the  terrible  blow 
of  the  club  as  it  fell  on  his  master's  head — and 
the  sound  of  it  aroused  him  from  his  restless 
sleep. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  spine  stiffening 
and  a  snarl  in  his  throat.  The  fire  had  died 
down  and  the  camp  was  in  the  darker  gloom 
that  precedes  dawn.  Through  that  gloom 
Kazan  saw  McCready.  Again  he  was  stand- 
ing close  to  the  tent  of  his  mistress,  and  he  knew 
now  that  this  was  the  man  who  had  worn  the 
black  iron  rings,  and  that  it  was  he  who  had 
beaten  him  with  whip  and  club  for  many  long 
days  after  he  had  killed  his  master.  McCready 
heard  the  menace  in  his  throat  and  came  back 
quickly  to  the  fire.  He  began  to  whistle  and 
draw  the  half-burned  logs  together,  and  as  the 
fire  blazed  up  afresh  he  shouted  to  awaken 
Thorp  and  Isobel.  In  a  few  minutes  Thorpe 
appeared  at  the  tent-flap  and  his  wife  followed 
him  out.  Her  loose  hair  rippled  in  billows  o/ 


22  KAZAN 

gold  about  her  shoulders  and  she  sat  down  on 
the  sledge,  close  to  Kazan,  and  began  brushing 
it.  McCready  came  up  behind  her  and  fum- 
bled among  the  packages  on  the  sledge.  As 
if  by  accident  one  of  his  hands  buried  itself  for 
an  instant  in  the  rich  tresses  that  flowed  down 
her  back.  She  did  not  at  first  feel  the  caress- 
ing touch  of  his  fingers,  and  Thorpe's  back 
was  toward  them. 

Only  Kazan  saw  the  stealthy  movement  of 
the  hand,  the  fondling  clutch  of  the  fingers 
in  her  hair,  and  the  mad  passion  burning 
in  the  eyes  of  the  man.  Quicker  than  a 
lynx,  the  dog  had  leaped  the  length  of  his 
chain  across  the  sledge.  McCready  sprang 
back  just  in  time,  and  as  Kazan  reached  the 
end  of  his  chain  he  was  jerked  back  so  that  his 
body  struck  sidewise  against  the  girl.  Thorpe 
had  turned  in  time  to  see  the  end  of  the  leap. 
He  believed  that  Kazan  had  sprung  at  Isobel, 
and  in  his  horror  no  word  or  cry  escaped  his 
lips  as  he  dragged  her  from  where  she  had  half 
fallen  over  the  sledge.  He  saw  that  she  was 
not  hurt,  and  he  reached  for  his  revolver.  It 
was  in  his  holster  in  the  tent.  At  his  feet  wa» 
McCready's  whip,  and  in  the  passion  /»*  the 


McCREADY  PAYS  THE  DEBT     28 

moment  he  seized  it  and  sprang  upon  Kazan. 
The  dog  crouched  in  the  snow.  He  made  no 
move  to  escape  or  to  attack.  Only  once  in 
his  life  could  he  remember  having  received  a 
beating  like  that  which  Thorpe  inflicted  upon 
him  now.  But  not  a  whimper  or  a  growl 
escaped  him. 

And  then,  suddenly,  his  mistress  ran  forward 
and  caught  the  whip  poised  above  Thorpe's 
head. 

"Not  another  blow!"  she  cried,  and  some- 
thing in  her  voice  held  him  from  striking.  Mc- 
Cready  did  not  hear  what  she  said  then,  but  a 
strange  look  came  into  Thorpe's  eyes,  and 
without  a  word  he  followed  his  wife  into  their 
tent. 

"Kazan  did  not  leap  at  me,"  she  whispered, 
and  she  was  trembling  with  a  sudden  excite- 
ment. Her  face  was  deathly  white.  "That 
man  was  behind  me,"  she  went  on,  clutching 
her  husband  by  the  arm.  "I  felt  him  touch 
me — and  then  Kazan  sprang.  He  wouldn't 
bite  me.  It's  the  man!  There's  something 
— wrong — " 

She  was  almost  sobbing,  and  Thorpe  drew 
her  close  in  his  arms. 


24  KAZAN 

"I  hadn't  thought  before — but  it's  strange," 
he  said.  "Didn't  McCready  say  something 
about  knowing  the  dog?  It's  possible.  Per- 
haps he's  had  Kazan  before  and  abused  him  in 
a  way  that  the  dog  has  not  forgotten.  To- 
morrow I'll  find  out.  But  until  I  know — will 
you  promise  to  keep  away  from  Kazan?" 

Isobel  gave  the  promise.  When  they  came 
out  from  the  tent  Kazan  lifted  his  great  head. 
The  stinging  lash  had  closed  one  of  his  eyes 
and  his  mouth  was  dripping  blood.  Isobel 
gave  a  low  sob,  but  did  not  go  near  him.  Half 
blinded,  he  knew  that  his  mistress  had  stopped 
his  punishment,  and  he  whined  softly,  and 
wagged  his  thick  tail  in  the  snow. 

Never  had  he  felt  so  miserable  as  through 
the  long  hard  hours  of  the  day  that  followed, 
when  he  broke  the  trail  for  his  team-mates  into 
the  North.  One  of  his  eyes  was  closed  and 
filled  with  stinging  fire,  and  his  body  was  sore 
from  the  blows  of  the  caribou  lash.  But  it 
was  not  physical  pain  that  gave  the  sullen  droop 
to  his  head  and  robbed  his  body  of  that  keen 
quick  alertness  of  the  lead-dog — the  com- 
mander of  his  mates.  It  was  his  spirit.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  it  was  broken.  Me- 


Cready  had  beaten  him — long  ago;  his  master 
had  beaten  him;  and  during  all  this  day  their 
voices  were  fierce  and  vengeful  in  his  ears. 
But  it  was  his  mistress  who  hurt  him  most. 
She  held  aloof  from  him,  always  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  leash;  and  when  they  stopped 
to  rest,  and  again  in  camp,  she  looked  at 
him  with  strange  and  wondering  eyes,  and  did 
not  speak.  She,  too,  was  ready  to  beat  him. 
He  believed  that,  and  so  slunk  away  from  her 
and  crouched  on  his  belly  in  the  snow.  With 
him,  a  broken  spirit  meant  a  broken  heart,  and 
that  night  he  lurked  in  one  of  the  deepest 
shadows  about  the  camp-fire  and  grieved  alone. 
None  knew  that  it  was  grief — unless  it  was  the 
girl.  She  did  not  move  toward  him.  She  did 
not  speak  to  him.  But  she  watched  him  closely 
— and  studied  him  hardest  when  he  was  looking 
at  McCready. 

Later,  after  Thorpe  and  his  wife  had 
gone  into  their  tent,  it  began  to  snow,  and  the 
effect  of  the  snow  upon  McCready  puzzled 
Kazan.  The  man  was  restless,  and  he  drank 
frequently  from  the  flask  that  he  had  used 
the  night  before.  In  the  firelight  his  face 
grew  redder  and  redder,  and  Kazan  could  see 


26  KAZAN 

the  strange  gleam  of  his  teeth  as  he  gazed  at 
the  tent  in  which  his  mistress  was  sleeping. 
Again  and  again  he  went  close  to  that  tent,  and 
listened.  Twice  he  heard  movement.  The 
last  time,  it  was  the  sound  of  Thorpe's  deep 
breathing.  McCready  hurried  back  to  the  fire 
and  turned  his  face  straight  up  to  the  sky. 
The  snow  was  falling  so  thickly  that  when  he 
lowered  his  face  he  blinked  and  wiped  his  eyes. 
Then  he  went  out  into  the  gloom  and  bent  low 
over  the  tVail  they  had  made  a  few  hours  be- 
fore. It  was  almost  obliterated  by  the  falling 
snow.  Another  hour  and  there  would  be  no 
trail — nothing  the  next  day  to  tell  whoever 
might  pass  that  they  had  come  this  way.  By 
morning  it  would  cover  everything,  even  the 
fire,  if  he  allowed  it  to  die  down.  McCready 
drank  again,  out  in  the  darkness.  Low  words 
of  an  insane  joy  burst  from  his  lips.  His  head 
was  hot  with  a  drunken  fire.  His  heart  beat 
madly,  but  scarcely  more  furiously  than  did 
Kazan's  when  the  dog  saw  that  McCready  was 
returning  with  a  club!  The  club  he  placed  on 
end  against  a  tree.  Then  he  took  a  lantern 
from  the  sledge  and  lighted  it.  He  ap« 


McCREADY  PAYS  THE  DEBT     27 

preached  Thorpe's  tent-flap,  the  lantern  in  his 
hand. 

"Ho,  Thorpe— Thorpe!"  he  called. 

There   was    no    answer.    He    could    hear 

i 

Thorpe  breathing.  He  drew  the  flap  aside  a 
little,  and  raised  his  voice. 

"Thorpe!" 

Still  there  was  no  movement  inside,  and  he 
untied  the  flap  strings  and  thrust  in  his  lantern. 
The  light  flashed  on  Isobel's  golden  head,  and 
McCready  stared  at  it,  his  eyes  burning  like 
red  coals,  until  he  saw  that  Thorpe  was  awak- 
ening. Quickly  he  dropped  the  flap  and 
rustled  it  from  the  outside. 

"Ho,  Thorpe! — Thorpe!"  he  called  again. 

This  time  Thorpe  replied. 

"Hello,  McCready— is  that  you?" 

McCready  drew  the  flap  back  a  little,  and 
spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes.  Can  you  come  out  a  minute? 
Something's  happening  out  in  the  woods. 
Don't  wake  up  your  wife!" 

He  drew  back  and  waited.  A  minute  later 
Thorpe  came  quietly  out  of  the  tent.  Me* 
Cready  pointed  into  the  thick  spruce. 


28  KAZAN 

"I'll  swear  there's  some  one  nosing  around 
the  camp,"  he  said.  "I'm  certain  that  I  saw 
a  man  out  there  a  few  minutes  ago,  when  I 
went  for  a  log.  It's  a  good  night  for  steal- 
ing dogs.  Here — you  take  the  lantern!  If 
I  wasn't  clean  fooled,  we'll  find  a  trail  in  the 
snow." 

He  gave  Thorpe  the  lantern  and  picked  up 
the  heavy  club.  A  growl  rose  in  Kazan's 
throat,  but  he  choked  it  back.  He  wanted  to 
snarl  forth  his  warning,  to  leap  at  the  end  of 
his  leash,  but  he  knew  that  if  he  did  that,  they 
would  return  and  beat  him.  So  he  lay  still, 
trembling  and  shivering,  and  whining  softly. 
He  watched  them  until  they  disappeared — and 
then  waited — listened.  At  last  he  heard  the 
crunch  of  snow.  He  was  not  surprised  to  see 
McCready  come  back  alone.  He  had  expected 
him  to  return  alone.  For  he  knew  what  a  club 
meant! 

McCready's  face  was  terrible  now.  It  was 
like  a  beast's.  He  was  hatfess.  Kazan  slunk 
deeper  in  his  shadow  at  the  low  horrible  laugh 
that  fell  from  his  lips — for  the  man  still  held 
the  club.  In  a  moment  he  dropped  that,  and 
approached  the  tent.  He  drew  back  the  flap 


McCREADY  PAYS  THE  DEBT     29 

and  peered  in.  Thorpe's  wife  was  sleeping, 
and  as  quietly  as  a  cat  he  entered  and  hung 
the  lantern  on  a  nail  in  the  tent-pole.  His 
movement  did  not  awaken  her,  and  for  a  few 
moments  he  stood  there,  staring — staring. 

Outside,  crouching  in  the  deep  shadow, 
Kazan  tried  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  these 
strange  things  that  were  happening.  Why 
had  his  master  and  McCready  gone  out  into  the 
forest?  Why  had  not  his  master  returned? 
It  was  his  master,  and  not  McCready,  who  be- 
longed in  that  tent.  Then  why  was  McCready 
there?  He  watched  McCready  as  he  entered, 
and  suddenly  the  dog  was  on  his  feet,  his 
back  tense  and  bristling,  his  limbs  rigid.  He 
saw  McCready's  huge  shadow  on  the  canvas, 
and  a  moment  later  there  came  a  strange 
piercing  cry.  In  the  wild  terror  of  that  cry, 
he  recognized  her  voice — and  he  leaped  toward 
the  tent.  The  leash  stopped  him,  choking  the 
snarl  in  his  throat.  He  saw  the  shadows 
struggling  now,  and  there  came  cry  after  cry. 
She  was  calling  to  his  master,  and  with  his 
master's  name  she  was  calling  him! 

"Kazan — Kazan — " 


SO  KAZAN 

He  leaped  again,  and  was  thrown  upon  his 
back.  A  second  and  a  third  time  he  sprang 
the  length  of  the  leash  into  the  night,  and  the 
babiche  cord  about  his  neck  cut  into  his  flesh 
like  a  knife.  He  stopped  for  an  instant, 
gasping  for  breath.  The  shadows  were  still 
fighting.  Now  they  were  upright !  Now  they 
were  crumpling  down!  With  a  fierce  snarl  he 
flung  his  whole  weight  once  more  at  the  end  of 
the  chain.  There  was  a  snap,  as  the  thong 
about  his  neck  gave  way. 

In  half  a  dozen  bounds  Kazan  made  the  tent 
and  rushed  under  the  flap.  With  a  snarl  he 
was  at  McCready's  throat.  The  first  snap  of 
his  powerful  jaws  was  death,  but  he  did  not 
know  that.  He  knew  only  that  his  mistress 
was  there,  and  that  he  was  fighting  for  her. 
There  came  one  choking  gasping  cry  that 
ended  with  a  terrible  sob;  it  was  McCready. 
The  man  sank  from  his  knees  upon  his  back, 
and  Kazan  thrust  his  fangs  deeper  into  his 
enemy's  throat;  he  felt  the  warm  blood. 

The  dog's  mistress  was  calling  to  him  now. 
She  was  pulling  at  his  shaggy  neck.  But  he 
would  not  loose  his  hold — not  for  a  long 
time.  When  he  did,  his  mistress  looked  down 


McCREADY  PAYS  THE  DEBT     81 

once  upon  the  man  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  Then  she  sank  down  upon  the 
blankets.  She  was  very  still.  Her  face  and 
hands  were  cold,  and  Kazan  muzzled  them 
tenderly.  Her  eyes  were  closed.  He  snug- 
gled up  close  against  her,  with  his  ready  jaws 
turned  toward  the  dead  man.  Why  was  she 
so  still,  he  wondered? 

A  long  time  passed,  and  then  she 
moved.  Her  eyes  opened.  Her  hand  touched 
him. 

Then  he  heard  a  step  outside. 

It  was  his  master,  and  with  that  old  thrill 
of  fear — fear  of  the  club — he  went  swiftly  to 
the  door.  Yes,  there  was  his  master  in  the  fire- 
light— and  in  his  hand  he  held  the  club.  He 
was  coming  slowly,  almost  falling  at  each  step, 
and  his  face  was  red  with  blood.  But  he  had 
the  club!  He  would  beat  him  again — beat 
him  terribly  for  hurting  McCready;  so  Kazaz? 
slipped  quietly  under  the  tent-flap  and  stole 
off  into  the  shadows.  From  out  the  gloom  of 
the  thick  spruce  he  looked  back,  and  a  low 
whine  of  love  and  grief  rose  and  died  softly  in 
his  throat.  They  would  beat  him  always  now 
*—after  that.  Even  she  would  beat  him* 


32  KAZAN 

They  would  hunt  him  down,  and  beat  him 
when  they  found  him. 

From  out  of  the  glow  of  the  fire  he  turned 
his  wolfish  head  to  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
There  were  no  clubs  or  stinging  lashes  out  in 
that  gloom.  They  would  never  find  him  there. 

For  another  moment  he  wavered.  And 
then,  as  silently  as  one  of  the  wild  creatures 
whose  blood  was  partly  his,  he  stole  away  into 
the  blackness  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FREE   FROM   BONDS 

was  a  low  moaning  of  the 
in  the  spruce-tops  as  Kazan  slunk  off 
into  the  blackness  and  mystery  of  the  forest. 
For  hours  he  lay  near  the  camp,  his  red  and 
blistered  eyes  gazing  steadily  at  the  tent 
wherein  the  terrible  thing  had  happened  a  little 
while  before. 

He  knew  now  what  death  was.  He  could 
tell  it  farther  than  man.  He  could  smell  it  in 
the  air.  And  he  knew  that  there  was  death 
all  about  him,  and  that  he  was  the  cause  of  it. 
He  lay  on  his  belly  in  the  deep  snow  and  shiv- 
ered, and  the  three-quarters  of  him  that  was 
dog  whined  in  a  grief-stricken  way,  while  the 
quarter  that  was  wolf  still  revealed  itself  men- 
acingly in  his  fangs,  and  in  the  vengeful  glare 
of  his  eyes. 

Three  times  the  man — his  master — came  out 
of  the  tent,  and  shouted  loudly,  "Kazan- 
Kazan — Kazan  1" 

tt 


34  KAZAN 

Three  times  the  woman  came  with  him.  In 
the  firelight  Kazan  could  see  her  shining  hair 
streaming  about  her,  as  he  had  seen  it  in  the 
tent,  when  he  had  leaped  up  and  killed  the 
other  man.  In  her  blue  eyes  there  was  the 
same  wild  terror,  and  her  face  was  white  as  the 
snow.  And  the  second  and  third  time,  she  too 
called,  "Kazan — Kazan — Kazan!" — and  all 
that  part  of  him  that  was  dog,  and  not  wolf, 
trembled  joyously  at  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
and  he  almost  crept  in  to  take  his  beating. 
But  fear  of  the  club  was  the  greater,  and 
he  held  back,  hour  after  hour,  until  now  it  was 
silent  again  in  the  tent,  and  he  could  no  longer 
see  their  shadows,  and  the  fire  was  dying  down. 

Cautiously  he  crept  out  from  the  thick 
gloom,  working  his  way  on  his  belly  toward 
the  packed  sledge,  and  what  remained  of  the 
burned  logs.  Beyond  that  sledge,  hidden  in 
the  darkness  of  the  trees,  was  the  body  of  the 
man  he  had  killed,  covered  with  a  blanket. 
Thorpe,  his  master,  had  dragged  it  there. 

He  lay  down,  with  his  nose  to  the  warm 
coals  and  his  eyes  leveled  between  his  fore- 
paws,  straight  at  the  closed  tent-flap.  He 
meant  to  keep  awake,  to  watch,  to  be  ready  to 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  85 

slink  off  into  the  forest  at  the  first  movement 
there.  But  a  warmth  was  rising  from  out  of 
the  gray  ash  of  the  fire-bed,  and  his  eyes  closed. 
Twice — three  times — he  fought  himself  back 
into  watchfulness;  but  the  last  time  his  eyes 
came  only  half  open,  and  closed  heavily  again. 

And  now,  in  his  sleep,  he  whined  softly,  and 
the  splendid  muscles  of  his  legs  and  shoulders 
twitched,  and  sudden  shuddering  ripples  ran 
along  his  tawny  spine.  Thorpe,  who  was  in 
the  tent,  if  he  had  seen  him,  would  have  known 
that  he  was  dreaming.  And  Thorpe's  wife, 
whose  golden  head  lay  close  against  his  breast, 
and  who  shuddered  and  trembled  now  and  then 
even  as  Kazan  was  doing,  would  have  known 
what  he  was  dreaming  about. 

In  his  sleep  he  was  leaping  again  at  the  end 
of  his  chain.  His  jaws  snapped  like  castanets 
of  steel, — and  the  sound  awakened  him,  and  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  his  spine  as  stiff  as  a  brush, 
and  his  snarling  fangs  bared  like  ivory  knives. 
He  had  awakened  just  in  time.  There  was 
movement  in  the  tent.  His  master  was 
awake,  and  if  he  did  not  escape — 

He  sped  swiftly  into  the  thick  spruce,  and 
paused,  flat  and  hidden,  with  only  his  head 


86  KAZAN 

showing  from  behind  a  tree.  He  knew  that 
his  master  would  not  spare  him.  Three  times 
Thorpe  had  beaten  him  for  snapping  at  Me- 
Cready.  The  last  time  he  would  have  shot 
him  if  the  girl  had  not  saved  him.  And  now 
he  had  torn  McCready's  throat.  He  had 
taken  the  life  from  him,  and  his  master  would 
not  spare  him.  Even  the  woman  could  not 
save  him. 

Kazan  was  sorry  that  his  master  had  re- 
turned, dazed  and  bleeding,  after  he  had  torn 
McCready's  jugular.  Then  he  would  have 
had  her  always.  She  would  have  loved  him. 
She  did  love  him.  And  he  would  have  fol- 
lowed her,  and  fought  for  her  always,  and 
died  for  her  when  the  time  came.  But  Thorpe 
had  come  in  from  the  forest  again,  and  Kazan 
had  slunk  away  quickly — for  Thorpe  meant 
to  him  what  all  men  meant  to  him  now:  the 
club,  the  whip  and  the  strange  things  that 
spat  fire  and  death.  And  now — 

Thorpe  had  come  out  from  the  tent.  It 
was  approaching  dawn,  and  in  his  hand  he  held 
a  rifle.  A  moment  later  the  girl  came  out,  and 
her  hand  caught  the  man's  arm.  They  looked 
toward  the  thing  covered  by  the  blanket. 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  87 

Then  she  spoke  to  Thorpe  and  he  suddenly 
straightened  and  threw  back  his  head. 

"H-o-o-o-o —  Kazan —  Kazan —  Kazan  I" 
he  called. 

A  shiver  ran  through  Kazan.  The  man  was 
trying  to  inveigle  him  back.  He  had  in  his 
hand  the  thing  that  killed. 

"Kazan — Kazan — Ka-a-a-a-zan  1"  he  shout- 
ed again. 

Kazan  sneaked  cautiously  back  from  the 
tree.  He  knew  that  distance  meant  nothing 
to  the  cold  thing  of  death  that  Thorpe  held  in 
his  hand.  He  turned  his  head  once,  and 
whined  softly,  and  for  an  instant  a  great  long- 
ing filled  his  reddened  eyes  as  he  saw  the  last 
of  the  girl. 

He  knew,  now,  that  he  was  leaving  her  for- 
ever, and  there  was  an  ache  in  his  heart  that 
had  never  been  there  before,  a  pain  that  was 
not  of  the  club  or  whip,  of  cold  or  hunger,  but 
which  was  greater  than  them  all,  and  which 
filled  him  with  a  desire  to  throw  back  his  head 
and  cry  out  his  loneliness  to  the  gray  empti- 
ness of  the  sky. 

Back  in  the  camp  the  girl's  voice  quivered. 

"He  is  gone." 


88  KAZAN 

The  man's  strong  voice  choked  a  little. 

"Yes,  he  is  gone.  He  knew —  and  I  didn't. 
I'd  give — a  year  of  my  life — if  I  hadn't 
whipped  him  yesterday  and  last  night.  He 
won't  come  back." 

Isobel  Thorpe's  hand  tightened  on  his  arm. 

"He  will!"  she  cried.  "He  won't  leave  me. 
He  loved  me,  if  he  was  savage  and  terrible. 
And  he  knows  that  I  love  him.  He'll  come 
back—" 

"Listen!" 

From  deep  in  the  forest  there  came  a  long 
wailing  howl,  filled  with  a  plaintive  sadness. 
It  was  Kazan's  farewell  to  the  woman. 

After  that  cry  Kazan  sat  for  a  long  time  on 
his  haunches,  sniffing  the  new  freedom  of  the 
air,  and  watching  the  deep  black  pits  in  the 
forest  about  him,  as  they  faded  away  before 
dawn.  Now  and  then,  since  the  day  the 
traders  had  first  bought  him  and  put  him  into 
sledge-traces  away  over  on  the  Mackenzie,  he 
had  often  thought  of  this  freedom  longingly, 
the  wolf  blood  in  him  urging  him  to  take  it. 
But  he  had  never  quite  dared.  It  thrilled  him 
now.  There  were  no  clubs  here,  no  whips, 
none  of  the  man-beasts  whom  he  had  first 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  89 

learned  to  distrust,  and  then  to  hate.  It  was 
his  misfortune — that  quarter-strain  of  wolf; 
and  the  clubs,  instead  of  subduing  him,  had 
added  to  the  savagery  that  was  born  in  him. 
Men  had  been  his  worst  enemies.  They  had 
beaten  him  time  and  again  until  he  was  almost 
dead.  They  called  him  "bad,"  and  stepped 
wide  of  him,  and  never  missed  the  chance  to 
snap  a  whip  over  his  back.  His  body  was  cov- 
ered with  scars  they  had  given  him. 

He  had  never  felt  kindness,  or  love,  until  the 
first  night  the  woman  had  put  her  warm  little 
hand  on  his  head,  and  had  snuggled  her  face 
close  down  to  his,  while  Thorpe — her  husband 
— had  cried  out  in  horror.  He  had  almost 
buried  his  fangs  in  her  white  flesh,  but  in  an 
instant  her  gentle  touch,  and  her  sweet  voice, 
had  sent  through  him  that  wonderful  thrill 
that  was  his  first  knowledge  of  love.  And 
now  it  was  a  man  who  was  driving  him  from 
her,  away  from  the  hand  that  had  never  held 
a  club  or  a  whip,  and  he  growled  as  he  trotted 
deeper  into  the  forest. 

He  came  to  the  edge  of  a  swamp  as  day 
broke.  For  a  time  he  had  been  filled  with  a 
strange  uneasiness,  and  light  did  not  quite 


40  KAZAN 

dispel  it.  At  last  he  was  free  of  men.  He 
could  detect  nothing  that  reminded  him  of 
their  hated  presence  in  the  air.  But  neither 
could  he  smell  the  presence  of  other  dogs,  of 
the  sledge,  the  fire,  of  companionship  and 
food,  and  so  far  back  as  he  could  remember 
they  had  always  been  a  part  of  his  life. 

Here  it  was  very  quiet.  The  swamp  lay  in 
a  hollow  between  two  ridge-mountains,  and 
the  spruce  and  cedar  grew  low  and  thick — so 
thick  that  there  was  almost  no  snow  under 
them,  and  day  was  like  twilight.  Two  things 
he  began  to  miss  more  than  all  others — food 
and  company.  Both  the  wolf  and  the  dog 
that  was  in  him  demanded  the  first,  and  that 
part  of  him  that  was  dog  longed  for  the  latter. 
To  both  desires  the  wolf  blood  that  was  strong 
in  him  rose  responsively.  It  told  him  that 
somewhere  in  this  silent  world  between  the  two 
ridges  there  was  companionship,  and  that  all 
he  had  to  do  to  find  it  was  to  sit  back  on  his 
haunches,  and  cry  out  his  loneliness.  More 
than  once  something  trembled  in  his  deep 
chest,  rose  in  his  throat,  and  ended  there  in 
a  whine.  It  was  the  wolf  howl,  not  yet  quite 
born. 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  4,1 

Food  came  more  easily  than  voice.  Toward 
midday  he  cornered  a  big  white  rabbit  under 
a  log,  and  killed  it.  The  warm  flesh  and  blood 
was  better  than  frozen  fish,  or  tallow  and  bran3 
and  the  feast  he  had  gave  him  confidence. 
That  afternoon  he  chased  many  rabbits,  and 
killed  two  more.  Until  now,  he  had  never 
known  the  delight  of  pursuing  and  killing  at 
will,  even  though  he  did  not  eat  all  he  killed. 

•But  there  was  no  fight  in  the  rabbits.  They 
died  too  easily.  They  were  very  sweet  and 
tender  to  eat,  when  he  was  hungry,  but  the 
first  thrill  of  killing  them  passed  away  after  a 
time.  He  wanted  something  bigger.  He  no 
longer  slunk  along  as  if  he  were  afraid,  or  as  if 
he  (wanted  to  remain  hidden.  He  held  his 
head  up.  His  back  bristled.  His  tail  swung 
free  and  bushy,  like  a  wolf's.  Every  hair  in 
his  body  quivered  with  the  electric  energy  of 
life  and  action.  He  traveled  north  and  west. 
It  was  the  call  of  early  days — the  days  away 
up  on  the  Mackenzie.  The  Mackenzie  was  a 
thousand  miles  away. 

He  came  upon  many  trails  in  the  snow  that 
day,  and  sniffed  the  scents  left  by  the  hoofs 
of  moose  and  caribou,  and  the  fur-padded  feel 


42  KAZAN 

of  a  lynx.  He  followed  a  fox,  and  the  trail 
led  him  to  a  place  shut  in  by  tall  spruce,  where 
the  snow  was  beaten  down  and  reddened  with 
Wood.  There  was  an  owl's  head,  feathers^ 
wings  and  entrails  lying  here,  and  he  knew  that 
there  were  other  hunters  abroad  besides  him- 
self. 

Toward  evening  he  came  upon  tracks  in  the 
snow  that  were  very  much  like  his  own.  They 
were  quite  fresh,  and  there  was  a  warm  scent 
about  them  that  made  him  whine,  and  filled 
him  again  with  that  desire  to  fall  back  upon 
his  haunches  and  send  forth  the  wolf-cry. 
This  desire  grew  stronger  in  him  as  the 
shadows  of  night  deepened  in  the  forest.  He 
had  traveled  all  day,  but  he  was  not  tired. 
There  was  something  about  night,  now  that 
there  were  no  men  near,  that  exhilarated  him 
strangely.  The  wolf  blood  in  him  ran  swifter 
and  swifter.  To-night  it  was  clear.  The 
sky  was  filled  with  stars.  The  moon  rose. 
And  at  last  he  settled  back  in  the  snow  and 
turned  his  head  straight  up  to  the  spruce-tops, 
and  the  wolf  came  out  of  him  in  a  long  mourn- 
ful cry  which  quivered  through  the  still  night 
for  miles. 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  48 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  and  listened  after 
that  howl.  He  nad  found  voice — a  voice  with 
a  strange  new  note  in  it,  and  it  gave  him 
still  greater  confidence.  He  had  expected  an 
answer,  but  none  came.  He  had  traveled  in 
the  face  of  the  wind,  and  as  he  howled,  a  bull 
moose  crashed  through  the  scrub  timber  ahead 
of  him,  his  horns  rattling  against  the  trees 
like  the  tattoo  of  a  clear  birch  club  as  he  put 
distance  between  himself  and  that  cry. 

Twice  Kazan  howled  before  he  went  on,  and 
he  found  joy  in  the  practise  of  that  new  note. 
He  came  then  to  the  foot  of  a  rough  ridge,  and 
turned  up  out  of  the  swamp  to  the  top  of  it. 
The  stars  and  the  moon  were  nearer  to  him 
there,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  he 
looked  down  upon  a  great  sweeping  plain, 
with  a  frozen  lake  glistening  in  the  moonlight, 
and  a  white  river  leading  from  it  off  into 
timber  that  was  neither  so  thick  nor  so  black 
as  that  in  the  swamp. 

And  then  every  muscle  in  his  body  grew 
tense,  and  his  blood  leaped.  From  far  off  in 
the  plain  there  came  a  cry.  It  was  his  cry — 
the  wolf-cry.  His  jaws  snapped.  His  white 
fangs  gleamed,  and  he  growled  deep  in  his 


44  KAZAN 

throat.  He  wanted  to  reply,  but  some  strange 
instinct  urged  him  not  to.  That  instinct  of 
the  wild  was  already  becoming  master  of  him. 
In  the  air,  in  the  whispering  of  the  spruce- 
tops,  in  the  moon  and  the  stars  themselves, 
there  breathed  a  spirit  which  told  him  that 
what  he  had  heard  was  the  wolf -cry,  but  that 
it  was  not  the  wolf  call. 

The  other  came  an  hour  later,  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, that  same  wailing  howl  at  the  beginning 
— but  ending  in  a  staccato  of  quick  sharp 
yelps  that  stirred  his  blood  at  once  into  a  fiery 
excitement  that  it  had  never  known  before. 
The  same  instinct  told  him  that  this  was  the 
call — the  hunt-cry.  It  urged  him  to  come 
quickly.  A  few  moments  later  it  came  again, 
and  this  time  there  was  a  reply  from  close 
down  along  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  and  another 
from  so  far  away  that  Kazan  could  scarcely 
hear  it.  The  hunt-pack  was  gathering  for  the 
night  chase;  but  Kazan  sat  quiet  and  trem- 
bling. 

He  was  not  afraid,  but  he  was  not  ready  to 
go.  The  ridge  seemed  to  split  the  world  for 
him.  Down  there  it  was  new,  and  strange, 
and  without  men.  From  the  other  side  some- 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  45 

thing  seemed  pulling  him  back,  and  suddenly 
he  turned  his  head  and  gazed  back  through 
the  moonlit  space  behind  him,  and  whined.  It 
was  the  dog-whine  now.  The  woman  was 
back  there.  He  could  hear  her  voice.  He 
could  feel  the  touch  of  her  soft  hand.  He 
could  see  the  laughter  in  her  face  and  eyes, 
the  laughter  that  had  made  him  warm  and 
happy.  She  was  calling  to  him  through  the 
forests,  and  he  was  torn  between  desire  to 
answer  that  call,  and  desire  to  go  down  into 
the  plain.  For  he  could  also  see  many  men 
waiting  for  him  with  clubs,  and  he  could  hear 
the  cracking  of  whips,  and  feel  the  sting  of 
their  lashes. 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  on  the  top  of 
the  ridge  that  divided  his  world.  And  then, 
at  last,  he  turned  and  went  down  into  the 
plain. 

All  that  night  he  kept  close  to  the  hunt- 
pack,  but  never  quite  approached  it.  This 
was  fortunate  for  him.  He  still  bore  the  scent 
of  traces,  and  of  man.  The  pack  would  have 
torn  him  into  pieces.  The  first  instinct  of  the 
wild  is  that  of  self-preservation.  It  may  have 
been  this,  a  whisper  back  through  the  years 


46  KAZAN 

of  savage  forebears,  that  made  Kazan  roll  in 
the  snow  now  and  then  where  the  feet  of  the 
pack  had  trod  the  thickest. 

That  night  the  pack  killed  a  caribou  on  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  and  feasted  until  nearly  dawn. 
Kazan  hung  in  the  face  of  the  wind.  The 
smell  of  blood  and  of  warm  flesh  tickled  his 
nostrils,  and  his  sharp  ears  could  catch  the 
cracking  of  bones.  But  the  instinct  was 
stronger  than  the  temptation. 

Not  until  broad  day,  when  the  pack  had 
scattered  far  and  wide  over  the  plain,  did 
he  go  boldly  to  the  scene  of  the  kill.  He 
found  nothing  but  an  area  of  blood-reddened 
snow,  covered  with  bones,  entrails  and  torn 
bits  of  tough  hide.  But  it  was  enough,  and 
he  rolled  in  it,  and  buried  his  nose  in  what  wa? 
left,  and  remained  all  that  day  close  to  itf 
saturating  himself  with  the  scent  of  it. 

That  night,  when  the  moon  and  the  stars 
came  out  again,  he  sat  back  with  fear  and  hesi- 
tation no  longer  in  him,  and  announced  himself 
to  his  new  comrades  of  the  great  plain. 

The  pack  hunted  again  that  night,  or  else 
it  was  a  new  pack  that  started  miles  to  the 
south,  and  came  up  with  a  doe  caribou  to  the 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  47 

big  frozen  lake.  The  night  was  almost  as 
clear  as  day,  and  from  the  edge  of  the  forest 
Kazan  first  saw  the  caribou  run  out  on  the 
lake  a  third  of  a  mile  away.  The  pack  was 
about  a  dozen  strong,  and  had  already  split 
into  the  fatal  horseshoe  formation,  the  two 
leaders  running  almost  abreast  of  the  kill,  and 
slowly  closing  in. 

With  a  sharp  yelp  Kazan  darted  out  into 
the  moonlight.  He  was  directly  in  the  path 
of  the  fleeing  doe,  and  bore  down  upon  her 
with  lightning  speed.  Two  hundred  yards 
away  the  doe  saw  him,  and  swerved  to  the 
right,  and  the  leader  on  that  side  met  her  with 
open  jaws.  Kazan  was  in  with  the  second 
leader,  and  leaped  at  the  doe's  soft  throat. 
In  a  snarling  mass  the  pack  closed  in  from  be- 
hind, and  the  doe  went  down,  with  Kazan  half 
under  her  body,  his  fangs  sunk  deep  in  her 
jugular.  She  lay  heavily  on  him,  but  he  did 
not  lose  his  hold.  It  was  his  first  big  kilL 
His  blood  ran  like  fire.  He  snarled  between 
his  clamped  teeth. 

Not  until  the  last  quiver  had  left  the  body 
over  him  did  he  pull  himself  out  from  under 
her  chest  and  forelegs.  He  had  killed  a  rab- 


48  KAZAN 

bit  that  day  and  was  not  hungry.  So  he  sat 
back  in  the  snow  and  waited,  while  the  raven- 
ous pack  tore  at  the  dead  doe.  After  a  little, 
he  came  nearer,  nosed  in  between  two  of  them, 
and  was  nipped  for  his  intrusion. 

As  Kazan  drew  back,  still  hesitating  to  mix 
with  his  wild  brothers,  a  big  gray  form  leaped 
out  of  the  pack  and  drove  straight  for  his 
throat.  He  had  just  time  to  throw  his 
shoulder  to  the  attack,  and  for  a  moment  the 
two  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  snow.  They 
were  up  before  the  excitement  of  sudden  battle 
had  drawn  the  pack  from  the  feast.  Slowly 
they  circled  about  each  other,  their  white  fangs 
bare,  their  yellowish  backs  bristling  like 
brushes.  The  fatal  ring  of  wolves  drew  about 
the  fighters. 

It  was  not  new  to  Kazan.  A  dozen  times 
he  had  sat  in  rings  like  this,  waiting  for  the 
final  moment.  More  than  once  he  had  fought 
for  his  life  within  the  circle.  It  was  the 
sledge-dog  way  of  fighting.  Unless  man  in- 
terrupted with  a  club  or  a  whip  it  always 
ended  in  death.  Only  one  fighter  could  come 
out  alive.  Sometimes  both  died.  And  there 
Was  no  man  here — only  that  fatal  cordon  of 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  49 

waiting  white-fanged  demons,  ready  to  leap 
&pon  and  tear  to  pieces  the  first  of  the  fighters 
who  was  thrown  upon  his  side  or  back.  Kazan 
was  a  stranger,  but  he  did  not  fear  those  that 
hemmed  him  in.  The  one  great  law  of  the 
pack  would  compel  them  to  be  fair. 

He  kept  his  eyes  only  on  the  big  gray 
leader  who  had  challenged  him.  Shoulder  to 
shoulder  they  continued  to  circle.  Where  a 
few  moments  before  there  had  been  the  snap- 
ping of  jaws  and  the  rending  of  flesh  there 
was  now  silence.  Soft-footed  and  soft- 
throated  mongrel  dogs  from  the  South  would 
have  snarled  and  growled,  but  Kazan  and  the 
wolf  were  still,  their  ears  laid  forward  instead 
of  back,  their  tails  free  and  bushy. 

Suddenly  the  wolf  struck  in  with  the  swift- 
ness of  lightning,  and  his  jaws  came  together 
with  the  sharpness  of  steel  striking  steel. 
They  missed  by  an  inch.  In  that  same  instant 
Kazan  darted  in  to  the  side,  and  like  knives 
his  teeth  gashed  the  wolf's  flank. 

They  circled  again,  their  eyes  growing  red- 
der, their  lips  drawn  back  until  they  seemed 
to  have  disappeared.  And  then  Kazan  leaped 
for  that  death-grip  at  the  throat — and  missed. 


50  KAZAN 

It  was  only  by  an  inch  again,  and  the  wolf 
came  back,  as  he  had  done,  and  laid  open 
Kazan's  flank  so  that  the  blood  ran  down  his 
leg  and  reddened  the  snow.  The  burn  of  that 
flank-wound  told  Kazan  that  his  enemy  was 
old  in  the  game  of  fighting.  He  crouched  low, 
his  head  straight  out,  and  his  throat  close  to  the 
snow.  It  was  a  trick  Kazan  had  learned 
in  puppyhood — to  shield  his  throat,  and 
wait. 

Twice  the  wolf  circled  about  him,  and 
Kazan  pivoted  slowly,  his  eyes  half  closed. 
A  second  time  the  wolf  leaped,  and  Kazan 
threw  up  his  terrible  jaws,  sure  of  that 
fatal  grip  just  in  front  of  the  forelegs.  His 
teeth  snapped  on  empty  air.  With  the  nim- 
bleness  of  a  cat  the  wolf  had  gone  completely 
over  his  back. 

The  trick  had  failed,  and  with  a  rumble  of 
the  dog-snarl  in  his  throat,  Kazan  reached  the 
wolf  in  a  single  bound.  They  met  breast  to 
breast.  Their  fangs  clashed  and  with  the 
whole  weight  of  his  body,  Kazan  flung  himself 
against  the  wolf's  shoulders,  cleared  his  jaws, 
and  struck  again  for  the  throat  hold.  It  was 
another  miss — by  a  hair's  breadth — and  before 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  51 

he  could  recover,  the  wolf's  teeth  were  buried 
in  the  back  of  his  neck. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Kazan  felt  the 
terror  and  the  pain  of  the  death-grip,  and  with 
a  mighty  effort  he  flung  his  head  a  little  for- 
ward and  snapped  blindly.  His  powerful 
jaws  closed  on  the  wolf's  foreleg,  close  to  the 
body.  There  was  a  cracking  of  bone  and  a 
crunching  of  flesh,  and  the  circle  of  waiting 
wolves  grew  tense  and  alert.  One  or  the 
other  of  the  fighters  was  sure  to  go  down  be- 
fore the  holds  were  broken,  and  they  but 
awaited  that  fatal  fall  as  a  signal  to  leap  in 
to  the  death. 

Only  the  thickness  of  hair  and  hide  on  the 
back  of  Kazan's  neck,  and  the  toughness  of 
his  muscles,  saved  him  from  that  terrible  fate 
of  the  vanquished.  The  wolf's  teeth  sank 
deep,  but  not  deep  enough  to  reach  the  vital 
spot,  and  suddenly  Kazan  put  every  ounce  of 
strength  in  his  limbs  to  the  effort,  and  flung 
himself  up  bodily  from  under  his  antagonist. 
The  grip  on  his  neck  relaxed,  and  with  another 
rearing  leap  he  tore  himself  free. 

As  swift  as  a  whip-lash  he  whirled  on  the 
broken-legged  leader  of  the  pack  and  with 


52  KAZAN 

the  full  rush  and  weight  of  his  shoulders  struck 
him  fairly  in  the  side.  More  deadly  than  the 
throat-grip  had  Kazan  sometimes  found  the 
lunge  when  delivered  at  the  right  moment. 
It  was  deadly  now.  The  big  gray  wolf  lost 
his  feet,  rolled  upon  his  back  for  an  instant, 
and  the  pack  rushed  in,  eager  to  rend  the  last 
of  life  from  the  leader  whose  power  had  ceased 
to  exist. 

From  out  of  that  gray,  snarling,  bloody- 
lipped  mass,  Kazan  drew  back,  panting  and 
bleeding.  He  was  weak.  There  was  a  curi- 
ous sickness  in  his  head.  He  wanted  to  lie 
down  in  the  snow.  But  the  old  and  infallible 
instinct  warned  him  not  to  betray  that  weak- 
ness. From  out  of  the  pack  a  slim,  lithe, 
gray  she-wolf  came  up  to  him,  and  lay  down 
in  the  snow  before  him,  and  then  rose  swiftly 
and  sniffed  at  his  wounds. 

She  was  young  and  strong  and  beautiful, 
but  Kazan  did  not  look  at  her.  Where  the 
fight  had  been  he  was  looking,  at  what  little 
remained  of  the  old  leader.  The  pack  had  re- 
turned to  the  feast.  He  heard  again  the 
cracking  of  bones  and  the  rending  of  flesh, 
and  something  told  him  that  hereafter  all  the 


FREE  FROM  BONDS  53 

wilderness  would  hear  and  recognize  his  voice, 
and  that  when  he  sat  back  on  his  haunches  and 
called  to  the  moon  and  the  stars,  those  swift- 
footed  hunters  of  the  big  plain  would  respond 
to  it.  He  circled  twice  about  the  caribou  and 
the  pack,  and  then  trotted  off  to  the  edge  of 
the  black  spruce  forest. 

When  he  reached  the  shadows  he  looked 
back.  Gray  Wolf  was  following  him.  She 
was  only  a  few  yards  behind.  And  now  she 
came  up  to  him,  a  little  timidly,  and  she,  too, 
looked  back  to  the  dark  blotch  of  life  out  on 
the  lake.  And  as  she  stood  there  close  beside 
him,  Kazan  sniffed  at  something  in  the  air 
that  was  not  the  scent  of  blood,  nor  the  per- 
fume of  the  balsam  and  spruce.  It  was  a 
thing  that  seemed  to  come  to  him  from  the 
clear  stars,  the  cloudless  moon,  the  strange 
and  beautiful  quiet  of  the  night  itself.  And 
its  presence  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  Gray  Wolf. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  he  found  Gray 
Wolf's  eyes  alert  and  questioning.  She  was 
young — so  young  that  she  seemed  scarcely  to 
have  passed  out  of  puppyhood.  Her  body 
was  strong  and  slim  and  beautifully  shaped. 
In  the  moonlight  the  hair  under  her  throat 


54  KAZAN 

and  along  her  back  shone  sleek  and  soft.  She 
whined  at  the  red  staring  light  in  Kazan's 
eyes,  and  it  was  not  a  puppy's  whimper. 
Kazan  moved  toward  her,  and  stood  with  his 
head  over  her  back,  facing  the  pack.  He  felt 
her  trembling  against  his  chest.  He  looked 
at  the  moon  and  the  stars  again,  the  mystery 
of  Gray  Wolf  and  of  the  night  throbbing  in 
his  blood. 

Not  much  of  his  life  had  been  spent  at  the 
posts.  Most  of  it  had  been  on  the  trail — 
in  the  traces — and  the  spirit  of  the  mating  sea- 
son had  only  stirred  him  from  afar.  But  it 
was  very  near  now.  Gray  Wolf  lifted  her 
head.  Her  soft  muzzle  touched  the  wound 
on  his  neck,  and  in  the  gentleness  of  that  touch, 
in  the  low  sound  in  her  throat,  Kazan  felt  and 
heard  again  that  wonderful  something  that 
had  come  with  the  caress  of  the  woman's  hand 
and  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

He  turned,  whining,  his  back  bristling,  his 
head  high  and  defiant  of  the  wilderness  which 
he  faced.  Gray  Wolf  trotted  close  at  his  side 
as  they  entered  into  the  gloom  of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    FIGHT    IN    THE    SNOW 

fTIHE Y  found  shelter  that  night  under  thick 
•»  balsam,  and  when  they  lay  down  on  the 
soft  carpet  of  needles  which  the  snow  had  not 
covered,  Gray  Wolf  snuggled  her  warm  body 
close  to  Kazan  and  licked  his  wounds.  The 
day  broke  with  a  velvety  fall  of  snow,  so  white 
and  thick  that  they  could  not  see  a  dozen  leaps 
ahead  of  them  in  the  open.  It  was  quite 
warm,  and  so  still  that  the  whole  world  seemed 
filled  with  only  the  flutter  and  whisper  of  the 
snowflakes.  Through  this  day  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf  traveled  side  by  side.  Time  and 
again  he  turned  his  head  back  to  the  ridge  over 
which  he  had  come,  and  Gray  Wolf  could  not 
understand  the  strange  note  that  trembled  ir 
his  throat. 

In  the  afternoon  they  returned  to  what  was 
left  of  the  caribou  doe  on  the  lake.  In  the 
edge  of  the  forest  Gray  Wolf  hung  back.  She 
did  not  yet  know  the  meaning  of  poison-baits, 


56  KAZAN 

deadfalls  and  traps,  but  the  instinct  of  num- 
berless generations  was  in  her  veins,  and  it  told 
her  there  was  danger  in  visiting  a  second  time 
a  thing  that  had  grown  cold  in  death. 

Kazan  had  seen  masters  work  about  cai> 
casses  that  the  wolves  had  left.  He  had  seen 
them  conceal  traps  cleverly,  and  roll  little 
capsules  of  strychnine  in  the  fat  of  the  en- 
trails, and  once  he  had  put  a  foreleg  in  a  trap, 
and  had  experienced  its  sting  and  pain  and 
deadly  grip.  But  he  did  not  have  Gray 
Wolf's  fear.  He  urged  her  to  accompany 
him  to  the  white  hummocks  on  the  ice,  and  at 
last  she  went  with  him  and  sank  back  restlessly 
on  her  haunches,  while  he  dug  out  the  bones 
and  pieces  of  flesh  that  the  snow  had  kept 
from  freezing.  But  she  would  not  eat,  and 
at  last  Kazan  went  and  sat  on  his  haunches  at 
her  side,  and  with  her  looked  at  what  he  had 
dug  out  from  under  the  snow.  He  sniffed 
the  air.  He  could  not  smell  danger,  but  Gray 
Wolf  told  him  that  it  might  be  there. 

She  told  him  many  other  things  in  the  days 
and  nights  that  followed.  The  third  night 
Kazan  himself  gathered  the  hunt-pack  and  led 
in  the  chase.  Three  times  that  month,  before 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW     51? 

the  moon  left  the  skies,  he  led  the  chase,  and 
each  time  there  was  a  kill.  But  as  the  snows 
began  to  grow  softer  under  his  feet  he  found 
a  greater  and  greater  companionship  in  Gray 
Wolf,  and  they  hunted  alone,  living  on  the 
big  white  rabbits.  'In  all  the  world  he  had 
loved  but  two  things,  the  girl  with  the  shining 
hair  and  the  hands  that  had  caressed  him — and 
Gray  Wolf. 

He  did  not  leave  the  big  plain,  and  often 
he  took  his  mate  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and 
he  would  try  to  tell  her  what  he  had  left  back 
there.  With  the  dark  nights  the  call  of  the 
woman  became  so  strong  upon  him  that  he 
was  filled  with  a  longing  to  go  back,  and  take 
Gray  Wolf  with  him. 

Something  happened  very  soon  after  that 
They  were  crossing  the  open  plain  one  day 
when  up  on  the  face  of  the  ridge  Kazan  saw 
something  that  made  his  heart  stand  stilL  A 
man,  with  a  dog-sledge  and  team,  was  coming 
down  into  their  world.  The  wind  had  not 
warned  them,  and  suddenly  Kazan  saw  some- 
thing glisten  in  the  man's  hands.  He  knew 
what  it  was.  It  was  the  thing  that  spat  fir* 
and  thunder,  and  killed. 


58  KAZAN 

He  gave  his  warning  to  Gray  Wolf,  and 
they  were  off  like  the  wind,  side  by  side.  And 
then  came  the  sound — and  Kazan's  hatred 
of  men  burst  forth  in  a  snarl  as  he  leaped. 
There  was  a  queer  humming  over  their  heads. 
The  sound  from  behind  came  again,  and  this 
time  Gray  Wolf  gave  a  yelp  of  pain,  and 
rolled  over  and  over  in  the  snow.  She  was  on 
her  feet  again  in  an  instant,  and  Kazan 
dropped  behind  her,  and  ran  there  until  they 
reached  the  shelter  of  the  timber.  Gray 
Wolf  lay  down,  and  began  licking  the  wound 
in  her  shoulder.  Kazan  faced  the  ridge.  The 
man  was  taking  up  their  trail.  He  stopped 
where  Gray  Wolf  had  fallen,  and  examined 
the  snow.  Then  he  came  on. 

Kazan  urged  Gray  Wolf  to  her  feet,  and 
they  made  for  the  thick  swamp  close  to  the 
lake.  All  that  day  they  kept  in  the  face  of 
the  wind,  and  when  Gray  Wolf  lay  down  Ka- 
zan stole  back  over  their  trail,  watching  and 
sniffing  the  air. 

For  days  after  that  Gray  Wolf  ran  lame, 
and  when  once  they  came  upon  the  remains  of 
an  old  camp,  Kazan's  teeth  were  bared  in  snarl- 
ing hatred  of  the  man-scent  that  had  been  lefk 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW    59 

behind.  Growing  in  him  there  was  a  desire 
for  vengeance — vengeance  for  his  own  hurts, 
and  for  Gray  Wolf's.  He  tried  to  nose  out 
the  man-trail  under  the  cover  of  fresh  snow, 
and  Gray  Wolf  circled  around  him  anxiously, 
and  tried  to  lure  him  deeper  into  the  forest. 
At  last  he  followed  her  sullenly.  There  was 
a  savage  redness  in  his  eyes. 

Three  days  later  the  new  moon  came.  And 
on  the  fifth  night  Kazan  struck  a  trail.  It 
was  fresh — so  fresh  that  he  stopped  as  sud- 
denly as  though  struck  by  a  bullet  when  he 
ran  upon  it,  and  stood  with  every  muscle  in  his 
body  quivering,  and  his  hair  on  end.  It  was 
a  man-trail.  There  were  the  marks  of  the 
sledge,  the  dogs'  feet,  and  the  snow-shoe  prints 
of  his  enemy. 

Then  he  threw  up  his  head  to  the  stars,  and 
from  his  throat  there  rolled  out  over  the  wide 
plains  the  hunt-cry — the  wild  and  savage  call 
for  the  pack.  Never  had  he  put  the  savagery 
in  it  that  was  there  to-night.  Again  and  again 
he  sent  forth  that  call,  and  then  there  came 
an  answer  and  another  and  still  another,  until 
Gray  Wolf  herself  sat  back  on  her  haunches 
and  added  her  voice  to  Kazan's,  and  far  out 


60  KAZAN 

on  the  plain  a  white  and  haggard-faced  man 
halted  his  exhausted  dogs  to  listen,  while  a 
voice  said  faintly  from  the  sledge: 

"The  wolves,  father.  Are  they  coming — 
after  us?" 

The  man  was  silent.  He  was  not  young. 
The  moon  shone  in  his  long  white  beard,  and 
added  grotesquely  to  the  height  of  his  tall 
gaunt  figure.  A  girl  had  raised  her  head 
from  a  bearskin  pillow  on  the  sleigh.  Her 
dark  eyes  were  filled  beautifully  with  the  star- 
light. She  was  pale.  Her  hair  fell  in  a  thick 
shining  braid  over  her  shoulder,  and  she  was 
hugging  something  tightly  to  her  breast. 

"They're  on  the  trail  of  something — prob- 
ably a  deer,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  the 
breech  of  his  rifle.  "Don't  worry,  Jo. 
We'll  stop  at  the  next  bit  of  scrub  and  see  if 
we  can't  find  enough  dry  stuff  for  a  fire. — 
Wee-ah-h-h-h,  boys!  Koosh — koosh — "  and 
he  snapped  his  whip  over  the  backs  of  his 
team. 

From  the  bundle  at  the  girl's  breast  there 
came  a  small  wailing  cry.  And  far  back  in 
the  plain  there  answered  it  the  scattered  voice 
of  the  pack. 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW     61 

At  last  Kazan  was  on  the  trail  of  vengeance. 
He  ran  slowly  at  first,  with  Gray  Wolf  close 
beside  him,  pausing  every  three  or  four  hun- 
dred yards  to  send  forth  the  cry.  A  gray 
leaping  form  joined  them  from  behind. 
Another  followed.  Two  came  in  from  the 
side,  and  Kazan's  solitary  howl  gave  place  to 
the  wild  tongue  of  the  pack.  Numbers  grew, 
and  with  increasing  number  the  pace  became 
swifter.  Four — six — seven — ten — fourteen, 
by  the  time  the  more  open  and  wind-swept  part 
of  the  plain  was  reached. 

It  was  a  strong  pack,  filled  with  old  and 
fearless  hunters.  Gray  Wolf  was  the  young- 
est, and  she  kept  close  to  Kazan's  shoulders. 
She  could  see  nothing  of  his  red-shot  eyes  and 
dripping  jaws,  and  would  not  have  understood 
if  she  had  seen.  But  she  could  feel  and  she 
was  thrilled  by  the  spirit  of  that  strange  and 
mysterious  savagery  that  had  made  Kazan  for- 
get all  things  but  hurt  and  death. 

The  pack  made  no  sound.  There  was  only 
the  panting  of  breath  and  the  soft  fall  of  many 
feet.  They  ran  swiftly  and  close.  And  al- 
ways Kazan  was  a  leap  ahead,  with  Gray 
Wolf  nosing  his  shoulder. 


<52  KAZAN 

Never  had  he  wanted  to  kill  as  he  felt  the 
desire  in  him  to  kill  now.  For  the  first  time  he 
had  no  fear  of  man,  no  fear  of  the  club,  of  the 
whip,  or  of  the  thing  that  blazed  forth  fire 
and  death.  He  ran  more  swiftly,  in  order  to 
overtake  them  and  give  them  battle  sooner. 
All  of  the  pent-up  madness  of  four  years  of 
slavery  and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  men  broke 
loose  in  thin  red  streams  of  fire  in  his  veins, 
and  when  at  last  he  saw  a  moving  blotch  far 
out  on  the  plain  ahead  of  him,  the  cry  that 
came  out  of  his  throat  was  one  that  Gray 
Wolf  did  not  understand. 

Three  hundred  yards  beyond  that  moving 
blotch  was  the  thin  line  of  timber,  and  Kazan 
and  his  followers  bore  down  swiftly.  Half- 
way to  the  timber  they  were  almost  upon  it, 
and  suddenly  it  stopped  and  became  a  black 
and  motionless  shadow  on  the  snow.  From 
out  of  it  there  leaped  that  lightning  tongue 
of  flame  that  Kazan  had  always  dreaded,  and 
he  heard  the  hissing  song  of  the  death-bee  over 
his  head.  He  did  not  mind  it  now.  He 
yelped  sharply,  and  the  wolves  raced  in  until 
four  of  them  were  neck-and-neck  with  him. 

A  second  flash — and  the  death-bee  drove 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW     68 

from  breast  to  tail  of  a  huge  gray  fighter  close 
to  Gray  Wolf.  A  third — a  fourth — a  fifth 
spurt  of  that  fire  from  the  black  shadow,  and 
Kazan  himself  felt  a  sudden  swift  passing 
of  a  red-hot  thing  along  his  shoulder,  where 
the  man's  last  bullet  shaved  off  the  hair  and 
stung  his  flesh. 

Three  of  the  pack  had  gone  down  under  the 
fire  of  the  rifle,  and  half  of  the  others  were 
swinging  to  the  right  and  the  left.  But 
Kazan  drove  straight  ahead.  Faithfully 
Gray  Wolf  followed  him. 

The  sledge-dogs  had  been  freed  from  their 
traces,  and  before  he  could  reach  the  man, 
whom  he  saw  with  his  rifle  held  like  a  club  in 
his  hands,  Kazan  was  met  by  the  fighting  mass 
of  them.  He  fought  like  a  fiend,  and  there 
was  the  strength  and  the  fierceness  of  two 
mates  in  the  mad  gnashing  of  Gray  Wolf's 
fangs.  Two  of  the  wolves  rushed  in,  and 
Kazan  heard  the  terrific,  back-breaking  thud 
of  the  rifle.  To  him  it  was  the  club.  He 
wanted  to  reach  it.  He  wanted  to  reach  the 
man  who  held  it,  and  he  freed  himself  from 
the  fighting  mass  of  the  dogs  and  sprang  to 
4he  sledge.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  that 


64  KAZAN" 

there  was  something  human  on  the  sledge, 
and  in  an  instant  he  was  upon  it.  He  buried 
his  jaws  deep.  They  sank  in  something  soft 
and  hairy,  and  he  opened  them  for  another 
lunge.  And  then  he  heard  the  voice!  It 
was  her  voice!  Every  muscle  in  his  body  stood 
still.  He  became  suddenly  like  flesh  turned 
to  lifeless  stone. 

Her  voice!  The  bear  rug  was  thrown  back 
and  what  had  been  hidden  under  it  he  saw 
clearly  now  in  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the 
stars.  In  him  instinct  worked  more  swiftly 
than  human  brain  could  have  given  birth  to 
reason.  It  was  not  she.  But  the  voice  was 
the  same,  and  the  white  girlish  face  so  close  to 
his  own  blood-reddened  eyes  held  in  it  that 
same  mystery  that  he  had  learned  to  love. 
And  he  saw  now  that  which  she  was  clutching 
to  her  breast,  and  there  came  from  it  a  strange 
thrilling  cry — and  he  knew  that  here  on  the 
sledge  he  had  found  not  enmity  and  death, 
but  that  from  which  he  had  been  driven  away 
in  the  other  world  beyond  the  ridge. 

In  a  flash  he  turned.  He  snapped  at  Gray 
Wolf's  flank,  and  she  dropped  away  with  a 
startled  yelp.  It  had  all  happened  in  a  mo- 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW     65 

jnent,  but  the  man  was  almost  down.  Kazan 
leaped  under  his  clubbed  rifle  and  drove  into 
the  face  of  what  was  left  of  the  pack.  His 
fangs  cut  like  knives.  If  he  had  fought  like 
a  demon  against  the  dogs,  he  fought  like  ten 
demons  now,  and  the  man — bleeding  and  ready 
to  fall — staggered  back  to  the  sledge,  marvel- 
ing at  what  was  happening.  For  in  Gray 
Wolf  there  was  now  the  instinct  of  matehood, 
and  seeing  Kazan  tearing  and  fighting  the 
pack  she  joined  him  in  the  struggle  which  she 
could  not  understand. 

When  it  was  over,  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf 
were  alone  out  on  the  plain.  The  pack  had 
slunk  away  into  the  night,  and  the  same  moon 
and  stars  that  had  given  to  Kazan  the  first 
knowledge  of  his  birthright  told  him  now  that 
no  longer  would  those  wild  brothers  of  the 
plains  respond  to  his  call  when  he  howled  into 
the  sky. 

He  was  hurt.  And  Gray  Wolf  was  hurt, 
but  not  so  badly  as  Kazan.  He  was  torn  and 
bleeding.  One  of  his  legs  was  terribly  bitten. 
After  a  time  he  saw  a  fire  in  the  edge  of  the 
forest.  The  old  call  was  strong  upon  him. 
He  wanted  to  crawl  in  to  it,  and  feel  the  girl's 


66  KAZAN 

hand  on  his  head,  as  he  had  felt  that  other 
hand  in  the  world  beyond  the  ridge.  He 
would  have  gone — and  would  have  urged  Gray 
Wolf  to  go  with  him — but  the  man  was  there. 
He  whined,  and  Gray  Wolf  thrust  her  warm 
muzzle  against  his  neck.  Something  told 
them  both  that  they  were  outcasts,  that  the 
plains,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars  were 
against  them  now,  and  they  slunk  into  the 
shelter  and  the  gloom  of  the  forest. 

Kazan  could  not  go  far.  He  could  still 
smell  the  camp  when  he  lay  down.  Gray 
Wolf  snuggled  close  to  him.  Gently  she 
soothed  with  her  soft  tongue  Kazan's  bleeding 
wounds.  And  Kazan,  Lifting  his  head, 
whined  softly  to  the  stars. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOAN 

ON  the  edge  of  the  cedar  and  spruce  for- 
est old  Pierre  Radisson  built  the  fire. 
He  was  bleeding  from  a  dozen  wounds,  where 
the  fangs  of  the  wolves  had  reached  to  his 
flesh,  and  he  felt  in  his  breast  that  old  and 
terrible  pain,  of  which  no  one  knew  the  mean- 
ing but  himself.  He  dragged  in  log  after  log, 
piled  them  on  the  fire  until  the  flames  leaped 
up  to  the  crisping  needles  of  the  limbs  above, 
and  heaped  a  supply  close  at  hand  for  use 
later  in  the  night. 

From  the  sledge  Joan  watched  him,  still 
wild-eyed  and  fearful,  still  trembling.  She 
was  holding  her  baby  close  to  her  breast.  Her 
long  heavy  hair  smothered  her  shoulders  and 
arms  in  a  dark  lustrous  veil  that  glistened  and 
rippled  in  the  firelight  when  she  moved.  Her 
young  face  was  scarcely  a  woman's  to-night, 
though  she  was  a  mother.  She  looked  like  a 
child. 

67 


68  KAZAN" 

Old  Pierre  laughed  as  he  threw  down  the 
last  armful  of  fuel,  and  stood  breathing  hard. 

"It  was  close,  ma  cheri"  he  panted  through 
his  white  beard.  "We  were  nearer  to  death 
out  there  on  the  plain  than  we  will  ever  be 
again,  I  hope.  But  we  are  comfortable  now, 
and  warm.  Eh?  You  are  no  longer  afraid?" 

He  sat  down  beside  his  daughter,  and  gently 
pulled  back  the  soft  fur  that  enveloped  the 
bundle  she  held  in  her  arms.  He  could  see 
one  pink  cheek  of  baby  Joan.  The  eyes  of 
Joan,  the  mother,  were  like  stars. 

"It  was  the  baby  who  saved  us,"  she  whis- 
pered. "The  dogs  were  being  torn  to  pieces 
by  the  wolves,  and  I  saw  them  leaping  upon 
you,  when  one  of  them  sprang  to  the  sledge. 
At  first  I  thought  it  was  one  of  the  dogs. 
But  it  was  a  wolf.  He  tore  once  at  us,  and 
the  bearskin  saved  us.  He  was  almost  at  my 
throat  when  baby  cried,  and  then  he  stood 
there,  his  red  eyes  a  foot  from  us,  and  I  could 
have  sworn  again  that  he  was  a  dog.  In  an 
fcxstant  he  turned,  and  was  fighting  the  wolves. 
£  saw  him  leap  upon  one  that  was  almost  at 
your  throat." 


JOAN  69 

"He  was  a  dog,"  said  old  Pierre,  holding 
out  his  hands  to  the  warmth.  "They  often 
wander  away  from  the  posts,  and  join  the 
wolves.  I  have  had  dogs  do  that.  Ma  cheri, 
a  dog  is  a  dog  all  his  life.  Kicks,  abuse,  even 
the  wolves  can  not  change  him — for  long.  He 
was  one  of  the  pack.  He  came  with  them — 
to  kill.  But  when  he  found  us — " 

"He  fought  for  us,"  breathed  the  girl. 
She  gave  him  the  bundle,  and  stood  up, 
straight  and  tall  and  slim  in  the  firelight. 
"He  fought  for  us — and  he  was  terribly  hurt," 
she  said.  "I  saw  him  drag  himself  away. 
Father,  if  he  is  out  there — dying — " 

Pierre  Radisson  stood  up.  He  coughed  in 
a  shuddering  way,  trying  to  stifle  the  sound 
under  his  beard.  The  fleck  of  crimson  that 
came  to  his  lips  with  the  cough  Joan  did  not 
see.  She  had  seen  nothing  of  it  during  the 
six  days  they  had  been  traveling  up  from  the 
edge  of  civilization.  Because  of  that  cough, 
and  the  stain  that  came  with  it,  Pierre  had 
made  more  than  ordinary  haste. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  that,"  he  said. 
"He  was  badly  hurt,  and  I  do  not  think  he 


70  KAZAN 

went  far.  Here — take  little  Joan  and  sit 
close  to  the  fire  until  I  come  back." 

The  moon  and  the  stars  were  brilliant  in 
the  sky  when  he  went  out  in  the  plain.  A 
short  distance  from  the  edge  of  the  timber- 
line  he  stood  for  a  moment  upon  the  spot 
where  the  wolves  had  overtaken  them  an  hour 
before.  Not  one  of  his  four  dogs  had  lived. 
The  snow  was  red  with  their  blood,  and  their 
bodies  lay  stiff  where  they  had  fallen  under 
the  pack.  Pierre  shuddered  as  he  looked  at 
them.  If  the  wolves  had  not  turned  their  first 
mad  attack  upon  the  dogs,  what  would  have 
become  of  himself,  Joan  and  the  baby?  He 
turned  away,  with  another  of  those  hollow 
coughs  that  brought  the  blood  to  his  lips. 

A  few  yards  to  one  side  he  found  in  the  snow 
the  trail  of  the  strange  dog  that  had  come  with 
the  wolves,  and  had  turned  against  them  in 
that  moment  when  all  seemed  lost.  It  was 
not  a  clean  running  trail.  It  was  more  of  a 
furrow  in  the  snow,  and  Pierre  Radisson  fol- 
lowed it,  expecting  to  find  the  dog  dead  at  the 
end  of  it. 

In  the  sheltered  spot  to  which  he  had 
dragged  himself  in  the  edge  of  the  forest 


JOAN  71 

Kazan  lay  for  a  long  time  after  the  fight,  alert 
and  watchful.  He  felt  no  very  great  pain. 
But  he  had  lost  the  power  to  stand  upon  his 
legs.  His  flanks  seemed  paralyzed.  Gray 
Wolf  crouched  close  at  his  side,  sniffing  the 
air.  They  could  smell  the  camp,  and  Kazan 
could  detect  the  two  things  that  were  there 
— man  and  woman.  He  knew  that  the  girl 
was  there,  where  he  could  see  the  glow  of 
the  firelight  through  the  spruce  and  the  cedars. 
He  wanted  to  go  to  her.  He  wanted  to  drag 
himself  close  in  to  the  fire,  and  take  Gray 
Wolf  with  him,  and  listen  to  her  voice,  and  feel 
the  touch  of  her  hand.  But  the  man  was  there, 
and  to  him  man  had  always  meant  the  club,  the 
whip,  pain,  death. 

Gray  Wolf  crouched  close  to  his  side,  and 
whined  softly  as  she  urged  Kazan  to  flee 
deeper  with  her  into  the  forest.  At  last  she 
understood  that  he  could  not  move,  and  she  ran 
nervously  out  into  the  plain,  and  back  again, 
until  her  footprints  were  thick  in  the  trail 
she  made.  The  instincts  of  matehood  were 
strong  in  her.  It  was  she  who  first  saw  Pierre 
Radisson  coming  over  their  trail,  and  she  ran 
swiftly  back  to  Kazan  and  gave  the  warning. 


72  KAZAN 

Then  Kazan  caught  the  scent,  and  he  saw 
the  shadowy  figure  coming  through  the  star- 
light. He  tried  to  drag  himself  back,  but  he 
could  move  only  by  inches.  The  man  came 
rapidly  nearer.  Kazan  caught  the  glisten 
of  the  rifle  in  his  hand.  He  heard  his 
hollow  cough,  and  the  tread  of  his  feet  in  the 
snow.  Gray  Wolf  crouched  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  him,  trembling  and  showing  her 
teeth.  When  Pierre  had  approached  within 
fifty  feet  of  them  she  slunk  back  into  the 
deeper  shadows  of  the  spruce. 

Kazan's  fangs  were  bared  menacingly  when 
Pierre  stopped  and  looked  down  at  him. 
With  an  effort  he  dragged  himself  to  his  feet, 
but  fell  back  into  the  snow  again.  The  man 
leaned  his  rifle  against  a  sapling  and  bent  over 
him  fearlessly.  With  a  fierce  growl  Kazan 
snapped  at  his  extended  hands.  To  his  sur- 
prise the  man  did  not  pick  up  a  stick  or  a 
club.  He  held  out  his  hand  again — cautiously 
— and  spoke  in  a  voice  new  to  Kazan.  The 
dog  snapped  again,  and  growled. 

The  man  persisted,  talking  to  him  all  the 
time,  and  once  his  mittened  hand  touched 
Kazan's  head,  and  escaped  before  the  jawf 


JOAN  78 

could  reach  it.  Again  and  again  the  man 
reached  out  his  hand,  and  three  times  Kazan 
felt  the  touch  of  it,  and  there  was  neither 
threat  nor  hurt  in  it.  At  last  Pierre  turned 
away  and  went  back  over  the  trail. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing, 
Kazan  whined,  and  the  crest  along  his  spine 
flattened.  He  looked  wistfully  toward  the 
glow  of  the  fire.  The  man  had  not  hurt  him, 
and  the  three-quarters  of  him  that  was  dog 
wanted  to  follow. 

Gray  Wolf  came  back,  and  stood  with 
stiffly  planted  forefeet  at  his  side.  She  had 
never  been  this  near  to  man  before,  except 
when  the  pack  had  overtaken  the  sledge  out 
on  the  plain.  She  could  not  understand. 
Every  instinct  that  was  in  her  warned  her  that 
he  was  the  most  dangerous  of  all  things,  more 
to  be  feared  than  the  strongest  beasts,  the 
(Storms,  the  floods,  cold  and  starvation.  And 
yet  this  man  had  not  harmed  her  mate.  She 
sniffed  at  Kazan's  back  and  head,  where  the 
mittened  hand  had  touched.  Then  she  trotted 
back  into  the  darkness  again,  for  beyond  the 
edge  of  the  forest  she  once  more  saw  moving 
life. 


74  KAZAN 

The  man  was  returning,  and  with  him  was 
the  girl.  Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet,  and 
there  was  about  her  the  breath  and  sweetness 
of  woman.  The  man  stood  prepared,  but  not 
threatening. 

"Be  careful,  Joan,"  he  warned. 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  in  the  snow,  just 
out  of  reach. 

"Come,  boy — come!"  she  said  gently.  She 
held  out  her  hand.  Kazan's  muscles  twitched. 
He  moved  an  inch — two  inches  toward  her. 
There  was  the  old  light  in  her  eyes  and  face 
now,  the  love  and  gentleness  he  had  known 
once  before,  when  another  woman  with  shin- 
ing hair  and  eyes  had  come  into  his  life, 
"Come!"  she  whispered  as  she  saw  him  move, 
and  she  bent  a  little,  reached  a  little  farther 
with  her  hand,  and  at  last  touched  his  head. 

Pierre  knelt  beside  her.  He  was  proffering 
something,  and  Kazan  smelled  meat.  But  it 
was  the  girl's  hand  that  made  him  tremble  and 
shiver,  and  when  she  drew  back,  urging  him 
to  follow  her,  he  dragged  himself  painfully  a 
foot  or  two  through  the  snow.  Not  until 
then  did  the  girl  see  his  mangled  leg.  In  an 


JOAN  75 

instant  she  had  forgotten  all  caution,  and  was 
down  close  at  his  side. 

"He  can't  walk,"  she  cried,  a  sudden  tremble 
in  her  voice.  "Look,  mon  pere!  Here  is  a 
terrible  cut.  We  must  carry  him." 

"I  guessed  that  much,"  replied  Radisson. 
"For  that  reason  I  brought  the  blanket.  Mon 
Dieu,  listen  to  that!" 

From  the  darkness  of  the  forest  there  came 
a  low  wailing  cry. 

Kazan  lifted  his  head  and  a  trembling  whine 
answered  in  his  throat.  It  was  Gray  Wolf 
calling  to  him. 

It  was  a  miracle  that  Pierre  Radisson  should 
put  the  blanket  about  Kazan,  and  carry  him 
in  to  the  camp,  without  scratch  or  bite.  It 
was  this  miracle  that  he  achieved,  with  Joan's 
arm  resting  on  Kazan's  shaggy  neck  as  she  held 
one  end  of  the  blanket.  They  laid  him  dowH 
dose  to  the  fire,  and  after  a  little  it  was 
the  man  again  who  brought  warm  water 
and  washed  away  the  blood  from  the  torn  leg, 
and  then  put  something  on  it  that  was  soft 
and  warm  and  soothing,  and  finally  bound  a 
cloth  about  it. 


76  KAZAN 

All  this  was  strange  and  new  to  Kazan. 
Pierre's  hand,  as  well  as  the  girl's,  stroked  his 
head.  It  was  the  man  who  brought  him  a 
gruel  of  meal  and  tallow,  and  urged  him  to 
eat,  while  Joan  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  two 
hands,  looking  at  the  dog,  and  talking  to  him. 
After  this,  when  he  was  quite  comfortable,  and 
no  longer  afraid,  he  heard  a  strange  small  cry 
from  the  furry  bundle  on  the  sledge  that 
brought  his  head  up  with  a  jerk. 

Joan  saw  the  movement,  and  heard  the  low 
answering  whimper  in  his  throat.  She  turned 
quickly  to  the  bundle,  talking  and  cooing  to  it 
as  she  took  it  in  her  arms,  and  then  she  pulled 
back  the  bearskin  so  that  Kazan  could  see. 
He  had  never  seen  a  baby  before,  and  Joan 
held  it  out  before  him,  so  that  he  could 
look  straight  at  it  and  see  what  a  wonderful 
creature  it  was.  Its  little  pink  face  stared 
steadily  at  Kazan.  Its  tiny  fists  reached  out, 
and  it  made  queer  little  sounds  at  him,  and 
then  suddenly  it  kicked  and  screamed  with  de- 
light and  laughed.  At  those  sounds  Kazan's 
whole  body  relaxed,  and  he  dragged  himself  to 
the  girl's  feet. 

"See,  he  likes  the  baby!"  she  cried. 


JOAN  77 

p&ref  we  must  give  him  a  name.  What  shall 
it  be?" 

"Wait  till  morning  for  that,"  replied  the 
father.  "It  is  late,  Joan.  Go  into  the  tent, 
and  sleep.  We  have  no  dogs  now,  and  will 
travel  slowly.  So  we  must  start  early." 

With  her  hand  on  the  tent-flap,  Joan 
turned. 

"He  came  with  the  wolves,"  she  said. 
"Let  us  call  him  Wolf."  With  one  arm  she 
was  holding  the  little  Joan.  The  other  she 
stretched  out  to  Kazan.  "Wolf!  Wolfl" 
she  called  softly. 

Kazan's  eyes  were  on  her.  He  knew  that 
she  was  speaking  to  him,  and  he  drew  himself 
a  foot  toward  her. 

"He  knows  it  already  1"  she  cried.  "Good 
night,  mon  pere" 

For  a  long  time  after  she  had  gone  into  the 
tent,  old  Pierre  Radisson  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  sledge,  facing  the  fire,  with  Kazan  at  his 
feet.  Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  again 
by  Gray  Wolf's  lonely  howl  deep  in  the  forest. 
Kazan  lifted  his  head  and  whined. 

"She's  calling  for  you,  boy,"  said  Pierre  un» 
derstandingly. 


78  KAZAN 

He  coughed,  and  clutched  a  hand  to  his 
breast,  where  the  pain  seemed  rending  him. 

"Frost-bitten  lung,"  he  said,  speaking 
straight  at  Kazan.  "Got  it  early  in  the  win- 
ter, up  at  Fond  du  Lac.  Hope  we'll  get  home 
— in  time — with  the  kids.'* 

In  the  loneliness  and  emptiness  of  the  big 
northern  wilderness  one  falls  into  the  habit  of 
talking  to  one's  self.  But  Kazan's  head  was 
alert,  and  his  eyes  watchful,  so  Pierre  spoke 
to  him. 

"We've  got  to  get  them  home,  and  there's 
only  you  and  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  twisting 
his  beard.  Suddenly  he  clenched  his  fists. 

His  hollow  racking  cough  convulsed  him 
again. 

"Home!"  he  panted,  clutching  his  chest. 
"It's  eighty  miles  straight  north — to  the 
Churchill — and  I  pray  to  God  we'll  get  there 
— with  the  kids — before  my  lungs  give  out." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  staggered  a  little 
as  he  walked.  There  was  a  collar  about 
Kazan's  neck,  and  he  chained  him  to  the  sledge. 
After  that  he  dragged  three  or  four  small  logs 
upon  the  fire,  and  went  quietly  into  the  tent 
where  Joan  and  the  baby  were  already  asleep. 


JOAN  7» 

Several  times  that  night  Kazan  heard  the 
distant  voice  of  Gray  Wolf  calling  for  him, 
but  something  told  him  that  he  must  not  an- 
swer it  now.  Toward  dawn  Gray  Wolf  came 
close  in  to  the  camp,  and  for  the  first  time 
Kazan  replied  to  her. 

His  howl  awakened  the  man.  He  came  out 
of  the  tent,  peered  for  a  few  moments  up  at 
the  sky,  built  up  the  fire,  and  began  to  pre- 
pare breakfast.  He  patted  Kazan  on  the 
head,  and  gave  him  a  chunk  of  meat.  Joan 
came  out  a  few  moments  later,  leaving  the 
baby  asleep  in  the  tent.  She  ran  up  and 
kissed  Pierre,  and  then  dropped  down  on  her 
knees  beside  Kazan,  and  talked  to  him  almost 
as  he  had  heard  her  talk  to  the  baby.  When 
she  jumped  up  to  help  her  father,  Kazan  fol- 
lowed her,  and  when  Joan  saw  him  standing 
firmly  upon  his  legs  she  gave  a  cry  of  pleasure. 

It  was  a  strange  journey  that  began  into 
the  North  that  day.  Pierre  Radisson  emptied 
the  sledge  of  everything  but  the  tent,  blankets, 
food  and  the  furry  nest  for  baby  Joan.  Then 
he  harnessed  himself  in  the  traces  and  dragged 
the  sledge  over  the  snow.  He  coughed  in- 
cessantly. 


80  KAZAN 

"It's  a  cough  I've  had  half  the  winter,"  lied 
Pierre,  careful  that  Joan  saw  no  sign  of  blood 
on  his  lips  or  beard.  "I'll  keep  in  the  cabin 
for  a  week  when  we  get  home." 

Even  Kazan,  with  that  strange  beast  know- 
ledge which  man,  unable  to  explain,  calls  in- 
stinct, knew  that  what  he  said  was  not  the 
truth.  Perhaps  it  was  largely  because  he  had 
heard  other  men  cough  like  this,  and  that  for 
generations  his  sledge-dog  ancestors  had  heard 
men  cough  as  Radisson  coughed — and  had 
learned  what  followed  it. 

More  than  once  he  had  scented  death  in 
tepees  and  cabins,  which  he  had  not  entered, 
and  more  than  once  he  had  sniffed  at  the  mys- 
tery of  death  that  was  not  quite  present,  but 
near — just  as  he  had  caught  at  a  distance  the 
subtle  warning  of  storm  and  of  fire.  And  that 
strange  thing  seemed  to  be  very  near  to  him 
now,  as  he  followed  at  the  end  of  his  chain 
behind  the  sledge.  It  made  him  restless,  and 
half  a  dozen  times,  when  the  sledge  stopped, 
he  sniffed  at  the  bit  of  humanity  buried  in  the 
bearskin.  Each  time  that  he  did  this  Joan 
was  quickly  at  his  side,  and  twice  she  patted 
his  scarred  and  grizzled  head  until  every  drop 


JOAN  81 

of  blood  in  his  body  leaped  riotously  with  a 
joy  which  his  body  did  not  reveal. 

This  day  the  chief  thing  that  he  came  to 
understand  was  that  the  little  creature  on  the 
sledge  was  very  precious  to  the  girl  who 
stroked  his  head  and  talked  to  him,  and  that  it 
was  very  helpless.  He  learned,  too,  that  Joan 
was  most  delighted,  and  that  her  voice  was 
softer  and  thrilled  him  more  deeply,  when  he 
paid  attention  to  that  little,  warm,  living  thing 
in  the  bearskin. 

For  a  long  time  after  they  made  camp 
Pierre  Radisson  sat  beside  the  fire.  To-night 
he  did  not  smoke.  He  stared  straight  into 
the  flames.  When  at  last  he  rose  to  go  into  the 
tent  with  the  girl  and  the  baby,  he  bent  over 
Kazan  and  examined  his  hurt. 

"You've  got  to  work  in  the  traces  to-mor- 
row, boy,"  he  said.  "We  must  make  the  river 
by  to-morrow  night.  If  we  don't — " 
j  He  did  not  finish.  He  was  choking  back 
one  of  those  tearing  coughs  when  the  tent- 
flap  dropped  behind  him.  Kazan  lay  stiff  and 
alert,  his  eyes  filled  with  a  strange  anxiety. 
He  did  not  like  to  see  Radisson  enter  the  tent, 
for  stronger  than  ever  there  hung  that  op- 


82  KAZAN 

pressive  mystery  in  the  air  about  him,  and  it 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  Pierre. 

Three  times  that  night  he  heard  faithful 
Gray  Wolf  calling  for  him  deep  in  the  forest, 
and  each  time  he  answered  her.  Toward 
dawn  she  came  in  close  to  camp.  Once  he 

caught  the  scent  of  her  when  she  circled  around 

i 

in  the  wind,  and  he  tugged  and  whined  at  the 
end  of  his  chain,  hoping  that  she  would  come 
in  and  lie  down  at  his  side.  But  no  sooner  had 
Radisson  moved  in  the  tent  than  Gray  Wolf 
was  gone.  The  man's  face  was  thinner,  and 
his  eyes  were  redder  this  morning.  His  cough 
was  not  so  loud  or  so  rending.  It  was  like  a 
wheeze,  as  if  something  had  given  way  inside, 
and  before  the  girl  came  out  he  clutched  his 
hands  often  at  his  throat.  Joan's  face  whi- 
tened when  she  saw  him.  Anxiety  gave  way 
to  fear  in  her  eyes.  Pierre  Radisson  laughed 
when  she  flung  her  arms  about  him,  and 
coughed  to  prove  that  what  he  said  was  true. 

"You  see  the  cough  is  not  so  bad,  my  Joan," 
he  said.  "It  is  breaking  up.  You  can  not 
have  forgotten,  ma  cheri?  It  always  leaves 
one  red-eyed  and  weak." 

It  was   a  cold  bleak  dark  day  that   fol* 


JOAN  88 

lowed,  and  through  it  Kazan  and  the  man 
tugged  at  the  fore  of  the  sledge,  with  Joan 
following  in  the  trail  behind.  Kazan's  wound 
no  longer  hurt  him.  He  pulled  steadily  with 
all  his  splendid  strength,  and  the  man  never 
lashed  him  once,  but  patted  him  with  his  mit- 
tened  hand  on  head  and  back.  The  day  grew 
steadily  darker  and  in  the  tops  of  the  trees 
there  was  the  low  moaning  of  a  storm. 

Darkness  and  the  coming  of  the  storm  did 
not  drive  Pierre  Radisson  into  camp.  "We 
must  reach  the  river,"  he  said  to  himself  over 
and  over  again.  "We  must  reach  the  river — 
we  must  reach  the  river — "  And  he  steadily 
urged  Kazan  on  to  greater  effort,  while  his 
own  strength  at  the  end  of  the  traces  grew 
less. 

It  had  begun  to  storm  when  Pierre  stopped 
to  build  a  fire  at  noon.  The  snow  fell  straight 
down  in  a  white  deluge  so  thick  that  it  hid  the 
tree  trunks  fifty  yards  away.  Pierre  laughed 
when  Joan  shivered  and  snuggled  close  up  to 
him  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  He  waited 
only  an  hour,  and  then  fastened  Kazan  in  the 
traces  again,  and  buckled  the  straps  once  more 
about  his  own  waist.  In  the  silent  gloom  that 


84  KAZAN 

was  almost  night  Pierre  carried  his  compass 
in  his  hand,  and  at  last,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
they  came  to  a  break  in  the  timber-line,  and 
ahead  of  them  lay  a  plain,  across  which  Radis- 
son  pointed  an  exultant  hand. 

"There's  the  river,  Joan,"  he  said,  his  voice 
faint  and  husky.  "We  can  camp  here  now 
and  wait  for  the  storm  to  pass." 

Under  a  thick  clump  of  spruce  he  put  up 
the  tent,  and  then  began  gathering  fire-wood. 
Joan  helped  him.  As  soon  as  they  had  boiled 
coffee  and  eaten  a  supper  of  meat  and  toasted 
biscuits,  Joan  went  into  the  tent  and  dropped 
exhausted  on  her  thick  bed  of  balsam  boughs, 
wrapping  herself  and  the  baby  up  close  in  the 
skins  and  blankets.  To-night  she  had  no 
word  for  Kazan.  And  Pierre  was  glad  that 
she  was  too  tired  to  sit  beside  the  fire  and  talk. 
And  yet — 

Kazan's  alert  eyes  saw  Pierre  start  suddenly, 
He  rose  from  his  seat  on  the  sledge  and  went 
to  the  tent.  He  drew  back  the  flap  and 
thrust  in  his  head  and  shoulders. 

"Asleep,  Joan?"  he  asked. 

^Almost,  father.    Won't  you  please  come 


— 8001?" 


JOAN  86 

"After  I  smoke,"  he  said.  "Are  you  com- 
fortable?" 

"Yes.    I'm  so  tired — and — sleepy — " 

Pierre  laughed  softly.  In  the  darkness  he 
was  gripping  at  his  throat. 

"We're  almost  home,  Joan.  That  is  our 
river  out  there — the  Little  Beaver.  If  I 
should  run  away  and  leave  you  to-night  you 
could  follow  it  right  to  our  cabin.  It's  only 
forty  miles.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes— I  know—" 

"Forty  miles — straight  down  the  river. 
You  couldn't  lose  yourself,  Joan.  Only  you'd 
have  to  be  careful  of  air-holes  in  the  ice." 

"Won't  you  come  to  bed,  father?  You're 
tired — and  almost  sick." 

"Yes — after  I  smoke,"  he  repeated.  "Joan, 
will  you  keep  reminding  me  to-morrow  of  the 
air-holes?  I  might  forget.  You  can  always 
tell  them,  for  the  snow  and  the  crust  over  them 
are  whiter  than  that  on  the  rest  of  the  ice,  and 
like  a  sponge.  Will  you  remember — the  air- 
holes—" 

"Yes-s-s-s— " 

Pierre  dropped  the  tent-flap  and  returned 
to  the  fire.  He  staggered  as  he  walked. 


86  KAZAN 

"Good  night,  boy,"  he  said.  "Guess  I'd  bet- 
ter  go  in  with  the  kids.  Two  days  more — 
forty  miles — two  days — " 

Kazan  watched  him  as  he  entered  the  tent. 
He  laid  his  weight  against  the  end  of  his  chain 
until  the  collar  shut  off  his  wind.  His  legs 
and  back  twitched.  In  that  tent  where  Radis- 
son  had  gone  were  Joan  and  the  baby.  He 
knew  that  Pierre  would  not  hurt  them,  but  he 
knew  also  that  with  Pierre  Radisson  some- 
thing terrible  and  impending  was  hovering 
very  near  to  them.  He  wanted  the  man  out- 
side— by  the  fire — where  he  could  lie  still,  and 
watch  him. 

In  the  tent  there  was  silence.  Nearer  to 
him  than  before  came  Gray  Wolf's  cry.  Each 
night  she  was  calling  earlier,  and  coming  closer 
to  the  camp.  He  wanted  her  very  near  to  him 
to-night,  but  he  did  not  even  whine  in  response. 
He  dared  not  break  that  strange  silence  in 
the  tent.  He  lay  still  for  a  long  time,  tired 
and  lame  from  the  day's  journey,  but  sleep- 
less. The  fire  burned  lower;  the  wind  in  the 
tree-tops  died  away ;  and  the  thick  gray  clouds 
rolled  like  a  massive  curtain  from  under  the 
skies.  The  stars  began  to  glow  white  and 


JOAN  87 

metallic,  and  from  far  in  the  North  there  came 
faintly  a  crisping  moaning  sound,  like  steel 
sleigh-runners  running  over  frosty  snow — 
the  mysterious  monotone  of  the  Northern 
Lights.  After  that  it  grew  steadily  and 
swiftly  colder. 

To-night  Gray  Wolf  did  not  compass  her- 
self by  the  direction  of  the  wind.  She  fol- 
lowed like  a  sneaking  shadow  over  the  trail 
Pierre  Radisson  had  made,  and  when  Kazan 
heard  her  again,  long  after  midnight,  he  lay 
with  his  head  erect,  and  his  body  rigid,  save  for 
a  curious  twitching  of  his  muscles.  There  was 
a  new  note  in  Gray  Wolf's  voice,  a  wailing 
note  in  which  there  was  more  than  the  mate- 
call.  It  was  The  Message.  And  at  the  sound 
of  it  Kazan  rose  from  out  of  his  silence  and 
his  fear,  and  with  his  head  turned  straight  up 
to  the  sky  he  howled  as  the  wild  dogs  of  the 
North  howl  before  the  tepees  of  masters  who 
are  newly  dead. 

Pierre  Radisson  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  Vll 

OUT  OF  THE   BLIZZARD 


to  Joan's  warm  breast  and  awakened  her 
with  its  cry  of  hunger.  She  opened  her  eyes, 
brushed  back  the  thick  hair  from  her  face,  and 
could  see  where  the  shadowy  form  of  her  father 
was  lying  at  the  other  side  of  the  tent.  He 
was  very  quiet,  and  she  was  pleased  that  he 
was  still  sleeping.  She  knew  that  the  day  be- 
fore he  had  been  very  near  to  exhaustion,  and 
so  for  half  an  hour  longer  she  lay  quiet,  cooing 
softly  to  the  baby  Joan.  Then  she  arose 
cautiously,  tucked  the  baby  in  the  warm  blank- 
ets and  furs,  put  on  her  heavier  garments,  and 
went  outside. 

By  this  time  it  was  broad  day,  and  she 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  she  saw  that  the 
storm  had  passed.  It  was  bitterly  cold.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  known  it  to 
be  so  cold  in  all  her  life.  The  fire  was  com- 
pletely out.  Kazan  was  huddled  in  a  round 

88 


OUT  OF  THE  BLIZZARD        8ft 

ball,  his  nose  tucked  under  his  body.  He 
raised  his  head,  shivering,  as  Joan  came  out. 
With  her  heavily  moccasined  foot  Joan  scat- 
tered the  ashes  and  charred  sticks  where  the 
fire  had  been.  There  was  not  a  spark  left. 
In  returning  to  the  tent  she  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment beside  Kazan,  and  patted  his  shaggy 
head. 

"Poor  Wolf!"  she  said.  "I  wish  I  hacl 
given  you  one  of  the  bearskins!" 

She  threw  back  the  tent-flap  and  entered* 
For  the  first  time  she  saw  her  father's  face  in 
the  light — and  outside,  Kazan  heard  the  ter- 
rible moaning  cry  that  broke  from  her  lips. 
No  one  could  have  looked  at  Pierre  Radisson's 
face  once — and  not  have  understood. 

After  that  one  agonizing  cry,  Joan  flung 
herself  upon  her  father's  breast,  sobbing  so 
softly  that  even  Kazan's  sharp  ears  heard  no 
sound.  She  remained  there  in  her  grief  until 
every  vital  energy  of  womanhood  and  mother- 
hood in  her  girlish  body  was  roused  to  action 
by  the  wailing  cry  of  baby  Joan.  Then  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  out  through  the 
tent  opening.  Kazan  tugged  at  the  end  of 
his  chain  to  meet  her,  but  she  saw  nothing  of 


90  KAZAN 

him  now.  The  terror  of  the  wilderness  is 
greater  than  that  of  death,  and  in  an  instant 
it  had  fallen  upon  Joan.  It  was  not  because 
of  fear  for  herself.  It  was  the  baby.  The 
wailing  cries  from  the  tent  pierced  her  like 
.  knife-thrusts. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  there  came  to  her 
what  old  Pierre  had  said  the  night  before — 
his  words  about  the  river,  the  air-holes,  the 
home  forty  miles  away.  "You  couldn't  lose 
yourself,  Joan"  He  had  guessed  what  might 
happen. 

She  bundled  the  baby  deep  in  the  furs  and 
returned  to  the  fire-bed.  Her  one  thought 
now  was  that  they  must  have  fire.  She  made 
a  little  pile  of  birch-bark,  covered  it  with  half- 
burned  bits  of  wood,  and  went  into  the  tent 
for  the  matches.  Pierre  Radisson  carried 
them  in  a  water-proof  box  in  a  pocket  of  his 
bearskin  coat.  She  sobbed  as  she  kneeled  be- 
side him  again,  and  obtained  the  box.  As  the 
fire  flared  up  she  added  other  bits  of  woodw 
and  then  some  of  the  larger  pieces  that  Pierre 
had  dragged  into  camp.  The  fire  gave  her 
courage.  Forty  miles — and  the  river  led  to 
their  home!  She  must  make  that,  with  the 


OUT  OF  THE  BLIZZARD        91 

baby  and  Wolf.  For  the  first  time  she  turned 
to  him,  and  spoke  his  name  as  she  put  her 
hand  on  his  head.  After  that  she  gave  him  a 
chunk  of  meat  which  she  thawed  out  over  the 
fire,  and  melted  the  snow  for  tea.  She  was 
not  hungry,  but  she  recalled  how  her  father 
had  made  her  eat  four  or  five  times  a  day, 
so  she  forced  herself  to  make  a  breakfast  of  a 
biscuit,  a  shred  of  meat  and  as  much  hot  tea 
as  she  could  drink. 

The  terrible  hour  she  dreaded  followed  that. 
She  wrapped  blankets  closely  about  her  fa- 
ther's body,  and  tied  them  with  babiche  cord. 
After  that  she  piled  all  the  furs  and  blankets 
that  remained  on  the  sledge  close  to  the  fire, 
and  snuggled  baby  Joan  deep  down  in  them. 
Pulling  down  the  tent  was  a  task.  The  ropes 
were  stiff  and  frozen,  and  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, one  of  her  hands  was  bleeding.  She 
piled  the  tent  on  the  sledge,  and  then,  half 
covering  her  face,  turned  and  looked  back. 

Pierre  Radisson  lay  on  his  balsam  bed,  with 
nothing  over  him  now  but  the  gray  sky  and 
the  spruce-tops.  Kazan  stood  stiff -legged 
and  sniffed  the  air.  His  spine  bristled  when 
Joan  went  back  slowly  and  kneeled  beside  the 


92  KAZAN 

blanket-wrapped  object.  When  she  returned 
to  him  her  face  was  white  and  tense,  and  now 
there  was  a  strange  and  terrible  look  in  her 
eyes  as  she  stared  out  across  the  barren.  She 
put  him  in  the  traces,  and  fastened  about  her 
slender  waist  the  strap  that  Pierre  had  used. 
Thus  they  struck  out  for  the  river,  floundering 
knee-deep  in  the  freshly  fallen  and  drifted 
snow.  Half-way  Joan  stumbled  in  a  drift  and 
fell,  her  loose  hair  flying  in  a  shimmering  veil 
over  the  snow.  With  a  mighty  pull  Kazan 
was  at  her  side,  and  his  cold  muzzle  touched 
her  face  as  she  drew  herself  to  her  feet.  For 
a  moment  Joan  took  his  shaggy  head  between 
her  two  hands. 

"Wolf!"  she  moaned.  "Oh,  Wolf!" 
She  went  on,  her  breath  coming  pantingly 
now,  even  from  her  brief  exertion.  The  snow 
was  not  so  deep  on  the  ice  of  the  river.  But 
a  wind  was  rising.  It  came  from  the  north 
and  east,  straight  in  her  face,  and  Joan  bowed 
her  head  as  she  pulled  with  Kazan.  Half  a 
mile  down  the  river  she  stopped,  and  no  longer 
could  she  repress  the  hopelessness  that  rose  to 
her  lips  in  a  sobbing  choking  cry.  Forty 
miles!  She  clutched  her  hands  at  her  breast* 


OUT  OF  THE  BLIZZARD        93 

and  stood  breathing  like  one  who  had  been 
beaten,  her  back  to  the  wind.  The  baby  was 
quiet.  Joan  went  back  and  peered  down  un- 
der the  furs,  and  what  she  saw  there  spurred 
her  on  again  almost  fiercely.  Twice  she  stum- 
bled to  her  knees  in  the  drifts  during  the 
next  quarter  of  a  mile. 

After  that  there  was  a  stretch  of  wind-swept 
ice,  and  Kazan  pulled  the  sledge  alone.  Joan 
walked  at  his  side.  There  was  a  pain  in  her 
chest.  A  thousand  needles  seemed  pricking 
her  face,  and  suddenly  she  remembered  the 
thermometer.  She  exposed  it  for  a  time  on 
the  top  of  the  tent.  When  she  looked  at  it 
a  few  minutes  later  it  was  thirty  degrees  be- 
low zero.  Forty  miles!  And  her  father  had 
told  her  that  she  could  make  it — and  could  not 
lose  herself!  But  she  did  not  know  that  even 
her  father  would  have  been  afraid  to  face  the 
Borth  that  day,  with  the  temperature  at  thirty 
below,  and  a  moaning  wind  bringing  the  first 
warning  of  a  blizzard. 

The  timber  was  far  behind  her  now.  Ahead 
there  was  nothing  but  the  pitiless  barren,  and 
the  timber  beyond  that  was  hidden  by  the  gray 
gloom  of  the  day.  If  there  had  been  trees, 


94  KAZAN 

Joan's  heart  would  not  have  choked  so  with 
terror.  But  there  was  nothing — nothing  but 
that  gray  ghostly  gloom,  with  the  rim  of  the 
sky  touching  the  earth  a  mile  away. 

The  snow  grew  heavy  under  her  feet  again 
Always  she  was  watching  for  those  treacher- 
ous,  frost-coated  traps  in  the  ice  her  father 
had  spoken  of.  But  she  found  now  that  all 
the  ice  and  snow  looked  alike  to  her,  and  that 
there  was  a  growing  pain  back  of  her  eyes. 
It  was  the  intense  cold. 

The  river  widened  into  a  small  lake,  and 
here  the  wind  struck  her  in  the  face  with  such 
force  that  her  weight  was  taken  from  the  strap, 
and  Kazan  dragged  the  sledge  alone.  A  few 
inches  of  snow  impeded  her  as  much  as  a  foot 
had  done  before.  Little  by  little  she  dropped 
back.  Kazan  forged  to  her  side,  every  ounce 
of  his  magnificent  strength  in  the  traces.  By 
the  time  they  were  on  the  river  channel  agauii 
Joan  was  at  the  back  of  the  sledge,  following 
in  the  trail  made  by  Kazan.  She  was  power- 
less to  help  him.  She  felt  more  and  more  the 
leaden  weight  of  her  legs.  There  was  but 
one  hope — and  that  was  the  forest.  If  they 
not  reach  it  soon,  within  half  an  hour,  she 


OUT  OF  THE  BLIZZARD        95 

would  be  able  to  go  no  farther.  Over  and 
over  again  she  moaned  a  prayer  for  her  baby  as 
she  struggled  on.  She  fell  in  the  snow-drifts. 
Kazan  and  the  sledge  became  only  a  dark 
blotch  to  her.  And  then,  all  at  once,  she  saTO 
that  they  were  leaving  her.  They  were  noi 
more  than  twenty  feet  ahead  of  her — but  the 
blotch  seemed  to  be  a  vast  distance  away. 
Every  bit  of  life  and  strength  in  her  body  was 
now  bent  upon  reaching  the  sledge — and  baby 
Joan. 

It  seemed  an  interminable  time  before  she 
gained.  With  the  sledge  only  six  feet  ahead 
of  her  she  struggled  for  what  seemed  to  her 
to  be  an  hour  before  she  could  reach  out  and 
touch  it.  With  a  moan  she  flung  herself 
forward,  and  fell  upon  it.  She  no  longer 
heard  the  wailing  of  the  storm.  She  no  longer 
felt  discomfort.  With  her  face  in  the  furs 
under  which  baby  Joan  was  buried,  there  came 
to  her  with  swiftness  and  joy  a  vision  of 
warmth  and  home.  And  then  the  vision  faded 
away,  and  was  followed  by  deep  night. 

Kazan  stopped  in  the  trail.  He  came  back 
then  and  sat  down  upon  his  haunches  beside 
her,  waiting  for  her  to  move  and  speak. 


96  KAZAN 

But  she  was  very  still.  He  thrust  his  nose 
into  her  loose  hair.  A  whine  rose  in  his  throat, 
and  suddenly  he  raised  his  head  and  sniffed  in 
the  face  of  the  wind.  Something  came  to  him 
with  that  wind.  He  muzzled  Joan  again,  but 
she  did  not  stir.  Then  he  went  forward,  and 
stood  in  his  traces,  ready  for  the  pull,  and 
looked  back  at  her.  Still  she  did  not  move  or 
Speak,  and  Kazan's  whine  gave  place  to  a 
sharp  excited  bark. 

The  strange  thing  in  the  wind  came  to  him 
stronger  for  a  moment.  He  began  to  pulL 
The  sledge-runners  had  frozen  to  the  snow,  and 
it  took  every  ounce  of  his  strength  to  free 
them.  Twice  during  the  next  five  minutes 
he  stopped  and  sniffed  the  air.  The  third 
time  that  he  halted,  in  a  drift  of  snou,  he  re- 
turned to  Joan's  side  again,  and  whined  to 
awaken  her.  Then  he  tugged  again  at  the 
end  of  his  traces,  and  foot  by  foot  he  dragged 
the  sledge  through  the  drift.  Beyond  the 
drift  there  was  a  stretch  of  clear  ice,  and  here 
Kazan  rested.  During  a  lull  in  the  wind  the 
scent  came  to  him  stronger  than  before. 

At  the  end  of  the  clear  ice  was  a  narrow 
break  in  the  shore,  where  a  creek  ran  into  thq 


OUT  OF  THE  BLIZZARD        97 

main  stream.  If  Joan  had  been  conscious  she 
would  have  urged  him  straight  ahead.  But 
Kazan  turned  into  the  break,  and  for  ten  min- 
utes he  struggled  through  the  snow  without  a 
rest,  whining  more  and  more  frequently,  until 
at  last  the  whine  broke  into  a  joyous  bark. 
Ahead  of  him,  close  to  the  creek,  was  a  small 
cabin.  Smoke  was  rising  out  of  the  chimney. 
It  was  the  scent  of  smoke  that  had  come  to 
him  in  the  wind.  A  hard  level  slope  reached 
to  the  cabin  door,  and  with  the  last  strength 
that  was  in  him  Kazan  dragged  his  burden  up 
that.  Then  he  settled  himself  back  beside 
Joan,  lifted  his  shaggy  head  to  the  dark  sky 
and  howled. 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened.  A  man 
came  out.  Kazan's  reddened,  snow-shot  eyes 
followed  him  watchfully  as  he  ran  to  the 
sledge.  He  heard  his  startled  exclamation  as 
he  bent  over  Joan.  In  another  lull  of  the  wind 
there  came  from  out  of  the  mass  of  furs  on  the 
sledge  the  wailing,  half-smothered  voice  of 
baby  Joan. 

A  deep  sigh  of  relief  heaved  up  from 
Kazan's  chest.  He  was  exhausted.  His 
strength  was  gone.  His  feet  were  torn  and 


98  KAZAN 

bleeding.  But  the  voice  of  baby  Joan  filled 
him  with  a  strange  happiness,  and  he  lay  down 
in  his  traces,  while  the  man  carried  Joan  and 
the  baby  into  the  life  and  warmth  of  the  cabin. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  man  reappeared. 
He  was  not  old,  like  Pierre  Radisson.  He 
came  close  to  Kazan,  and  looked  down  at  him. 

"  My  God,"  he  said.  "And  you  did  that 
— alone!" 

He  bent  down  fearlessly,  unfastened  him 
from  the  traces,  and  led  him  toward  the  cabin 
door.  Kazan  hesitated  but  once — almost  on 
the  threshold.  He  turned  his  head,  swift  and 
alert.  From  out  of  the  moaning  and  wailing 
of  the  storm  it  seemed  to  him  that  for  a  mo- 
ment he  had  heard  the  voice  of  Gray  Wolf. 

Then  the  cabin  door  closed  behind  him. 

Back  in  a  shadowy  corner  of  the  cabin  he 
lay,  while  the  man  prepared  something  over 
a  hot  stove  for  Joan.  It  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore Joan  rose  from  the  cot  on  which  the  man 
had  placed  her.  After  that  Kazan  heard  her 
sobbing;  and  then  the  man  made  her  eat,  and 
for  a  time  they  talked.  Then  the  stranger 
hung  up  a  big  blanket  in  front  of  the  bunk, 
and  sat  down  close  to  the  stove.  Quietly 


OUT  OF  THE  BLIZZARD         99 

Kazan  slipped  along  the  wall,  and  crept  un- 
der the  bunk.  For  a  long  time  he  could  hear 
the  sobbing  breath  of  the  girl.  Then  all  was 
still. 

The  next  morning  he  slipped  out  through 
the  door  when  the  man  opened  it,  and  sped 
swiftly  into  the  forest.  Half  a  mile  away  he 
found  the  trail  of  Gray  Wolf,  and  called  to 
her.  From  the  frozen  river  came  her  reply, 
and  he  went  to  her. 

Vainly  Gray  Wolf  tried  to  lure  him  back 
into  their  old  haunts — away  from  the  cabin  and 
the  scent  of  man.  Late  that  morning  the  man 
harnessed  his  dogs,  and  from  the  fringe  of  the 
forest  Kazan  saw  him  tuck  Joan  and  the  baby 
among  the  furs  on  the  sledge,  as  old  Pierre 
had  done.  All  that  day  he  followed  in  the 
trail  of  the  team,  with  Gray  Wolf  slinking 
behind  him.  They  traveled  until  dark;  and 
then,  under  the  stars  and  the  moon  that  had 
followed  the  storm,  the  man  still  urged  on 
his  team.  It  was  deep  in  the  night  when  they 
came  to  another  cabin,  and  the  man  beat  upon 
the  door.  A  light,  the  opening  of  the  door, 
the  joyous  welcome  of  a  man's  voice,  Joan's 
sobbing  cry — Kazan  heard  these  from  the 


100  KAZAN 

shadows  in  which  he  was  hidden,  and  then 
slipped  back  to  Gray  Wolf. 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed  Joan's 
home-coming  the  lure  of  the  cabin  and  of  the 
woman's  hand  held  Kazan.  As  he  had  toler-» 
ated  Pierre,  so  now  he  tolerated  the  younger 
man  who  lived  with  Joan  and  the  baby.  He 
knew  that  the  man  was  very  dear  to  Joan,  and 
that  the  baby  was  very  dear  to  him,  as  it  was 
to  the  girl.  It  was  not  until  the  third  day 
that  Joan  succeeded  in  coaxing  him  into  the 
cabin — and  that  was  the  day  on  which  the  man 
returned  with  the  dead  and  frozen  body  of 
Pierre.  It  was  Joan's  husband  who  first 
found  the  name  on  the  collar  he  wore,  and  they 
began  calling  him  Kazan. 

Half  a  mile  away,  at  the  summit  of  a  huge 
mass  of  rock  which  the  Indians  called  the  Sun 
Rock,  he  and  Gray  Wolf  had  found  a  home; 
and  from  here  they  went  down  to  their  hunts 
on  the  plain,  and  often  the  girl's  voice  reached 
up  to  them,  calling,  "Kazan!  Kazan!  Kazan!" 

Through  all  the  long  winter  Kazan  hovered 
thus  between  the  lure  of  Joan  and  the  cabin 
—and  Gray  Wolf. 

Then  came  Spring — and  the  Great  Change. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  GREAT  CHANGE 

HE  rocks,  the  ridges  and  the  valleys  were 
•*•  taking  on  a  warmer  glow.  The  poplar 
buds  were  ready  to  burst.  The  scent  of  bal- 
sam and  of  spruce  grew  heavier  in  the  air  each 
day,  and  all  through  the  wilderness,  in  plain 
and  forest,  there  was  the  rippling  murmur  of 
the  spring  floods  finding  their  way  to  Hudson's 
Bay.  In  that  great  bay  there  was  the  rumble 
and  crash  of  the  ice  fields  thundering  down  in 
the  early  break-up  through  the  Roes  Wel- 
come— the  doorway  to  the  Arctic,  and  for 
that  reason  there  still  came  with  the  April  wind 
an  occasional  sharp  breath  of  winter. 

Kazan  had  sheltered  himself  against  that 
•wind.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  in  the  sunny 
spot  the  wolf-dog  had  chosen  for  himself.  He 
was  more  comfortable  than  he  had  been  at  any 
time  during  the  six  months  of  terrible  winter 
~-and  as  he  slept  he  dreamed. 

Gray  Wolf,  his  wild  mate,  lay  near  him,  flat 
101 


102  KAZAN 

on  her  belly,  her  forepaws  reaching  out,  hei 
eyes  and  nostrils  as  keen  and  alert  as  the  smell 
of  man  could  make  them.  For  there  was  that 
smell  of  man,  as  well  as  of  balsam  and  spruce, 
in  the  warm  spring  air.  She  gazed  anxiously 
and  sometimes  steadily,  at  Kazan  as  he  slept. 
Her  own  gray  spine  stiffened  when  she  saw 
the  tawny  Imir  along  Kazan's  back  bristle  at 
some  dream,  vision.  She  whined  softly  as  his 
upper  lip  fnarled  back,  showing  his  long  white 
fangs.  But  for  the  most  part  Kazan  lay 
quiet,  save  for  the  muscular  twitchings  of  legs, 
shoulders  and  muzzle,  which  always  tell  when 
a  dog  is  dreaming;  and  as  he  dreamed  there 
came  to  the  door  of  the  cabin  out  on  the  plain 
a  blue-eyed  girl-woman,  with  a  big  brown  braid 
over  her  shoulder,  who  called  through  the  cup 
of  her  hands,  "Kazan,  Kazan,  Kazan!" 

The  voice  reached  faintly  to  the  top  of  the 
Sun  Rock,  and  Gray  Wolf  flattened  her  ears. 
Kazan  stirred,  and  in  another  instant  he  was 
awake  and  on  his  feet.  He  leaped  to  an  out- 
cropping ledge,  sniffing  the  air  and  looking 
far  out  over  the  plain  that  lay  below  them. 

Over  the  plain  the  woman's  voice  came  to 
them  again,  and  Kazan  ran  to  the  edge  of  the 


THE  GREAT  CHANGE         103 

rock  and  whined.  Gray  Wolf  stepped 
softly  to  his  side  and  laid  her  muzzle  on  his 
shoulder.  She  had  grown  to  know  what  the 
Voice  meant.  Day  and  night  she  feared  it, 
more  than  she  feared  the  scent  or  sound  of 
man. 

Since  she  had  given  up  the  pack  and  her  old 
life  for  Kazan,  the  Voice  had  become  Gray 
Wolf's  greatest  enemy,  and  she  hated  it.  It 
took  Kazan  from  her.  And  wherever  it  went, 
Kazan  followed. 

Night  after  night  it  robbed  her  of  her  mate, 
and  left  her  to  wander  alone  under  the  stars 
and  the  moon,  keeping  faithfully  to  her  loneli- 
ness, and  never  once  responding  with  her  own 
tongue  to  the  hunt-calls  of  her  wild  brothers 
and  sisters  in  the  forests  and  out  on  the  plains. 
Usually  she  would  snarl  at  the  Voice,  and 
sometimes  nip  Kazan  lightly  to  show  her  di- 
pleasure.  But  to-day,  as  the  Voice  came  a 
third  time,  she  slunk  back  into  the  darkness  of 
a  fissure  between  two  rocks,  and  Kazan  saw 
only  the  fiery  glow  of  her  eyes. 

Kazan  ran  nervously  to  the  trail  their  feet 
had  worn  up  to  the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock,  and 
undecided.  All  day,  and  yesterday,  he 


104.  KAZAN 

had  been  uneasy  and  disturbed.  Whatever  iti 
was  that  stirred  him  seemed  to  be  in  the  air, 
for  he  could  not  see  it  or  hear  it  or  scent  it. 
But  he  could  feel  it.  He  went  to  the  fissure 
and  sniffed  at  Gray  Wolf.  Usually  she 
whined  coaxingly.  But  her  response  to-day 
was  to  draw  back  her  lips  until  he  could  see 
her  white  fangs. 

A  fourth  time  the  Voice  came  to  them 
faintly,  and  she  snapped  fiercely  at  some  un- 
seen thing  in  the  darkness  between  the  two 
rocks.  Kazan  went  again  to  the  trail,  still 
hesitating.  Then  he  began  to  go  down.  It 
was  a  narrow  winding  trail,  worn  only  by  the 
pads  and  claws  of  animals,  for  the  Sun  Rock 
was  a  huge  crag  that  rose  almost  sheer  up  for 
a  hundred  feet  above  the  tops  of  the  spruce 
and  balsam,  its  bald  crest  catching  the  first 
gleams  of  the  sun  in  the  morning  and  the  last 
glow  of  it  in  the  evening.  Gray  Wolf  had 
first  led  Kazan  to  the  security  of  the  retreat 
at  the  top  of  the  rock. 

When  he  reached  the  bottom  he  no  longer 
hesitated,  but  darted  swiftly  in  the  direction 
of  the  cabin.  Because  of  that  instinct  of  the 
wild  that  was  still  in  him,  he  always  approached 


THE  GREAT  CHANGE         105 

the  cabin  with  caution.  He  never  gave  warn- 
ing, and  for  a  moment  Joan  was  startled  when 
she  looked  ujp  from  her  baby  and  saw  Kazan's 
shaggy  head  and  shoulders  in  the  open  door. 
The  baby  struggled  and  kicked  in  her  delight, 
and  held  out  her  two  hands  with  cooing  cries  to 
Kazan.  Joan,  too,  held  out  a  hand. 

"Kazan!"  she  cried  softly.  "Come  in,  Ka- 
zan!" 

Slowly  the  wild  red  light  in  Kazan's  eyes 
softened.  He  put  a  forefoot  on  the  sill,  and 
stood  there,  while  the  girl  urged  him  again. 
Suddenly  his  legs  seemed  to  sink  a  little  under 
him,  his  tail  drooped  and  he  slunk  in  with  that 
doggish  air  of  having  committed  a  crime.  The 
creatures  he  loved  were  in  the  cabin,  but  the 
cabin  itself  he  hated.  He  hated  all  cabins,  for 
they  all  breathed  of  the  club  and  the  whip  and 
bondage.  Like  all  sledge-dogs  he  preferred 
the  open  snow  for  a  bed,  and  the  spruce-tops 
for  shelter. 

Joan  dropped  her  hand  to  his  head,  and  at 
its  touch  there  thrilled  through  him  that 
strange  joy  that  was  his  reward  for  leaving 
Gray  Wolf  and  the  wild.  Slowly  he  raised 
his  head  until  his  black  muzzle  rested  on  her 


106  KAZAN 

lap,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  while  that  wonder- 
ful little  creature  that  mystified  him  so — the 
baby — prodded  him  with  her  tiny  feet,  and 
pulled  his  tawny  hair.  He  loved  these  baby- 
maulings  even  more  than  the  touch  of  Joan's 
hand. 

Motionless,  sphinx-like,  undemonstrative 
in  every  muscle  of  his  body,  Kazan  stood, 
scarcely  breathing.  More  than  once  this  lack 
of  demonstration  had  urged  Joan's  husband 
to  warn  her.  But  the  wolf  that  was  in  Kazan, 
his  wild  aloofness,  even  his  mating  with  Gray 
Wolf  had  made  her  love  him  more.  She  un- 
derstood, and  had  faith  in  him. 

In  the  days  of  the  last  snow  Kazan  had 
proved  himself.  A  neighboring  trapper  had 
run  over  with  his  team,  and  the  baby  Joan  had 
toddled  up  to  one  of  the  big  huskies.  There 
was  a  fierce  snap  of  jaws,  a  scream  of  horror 
from  Joan,  a  shout  from  the  men  as  they 
leaped  toward  the  pack.  But  Kazan  was 
ahead  of  them  all.  In  a  gray  streak  that 
traveled  with  the  speed  of  a  bullet  he  was  at 
the  big  husky's  throat.  When  they  pulled 
him  off,  the  husky  was  dead.  Joan  thought  of 


THE  GREAT  CHANGE         107 

that  now,  as  the  baby  kicked  and  tousled 
Kazan's  head. 

"Good  old  Kazan,"  she  cried  softly,  putting 
her  face  down  close  to  him.  "We're  glad  you 
came,  Kazan,  for  we're  going  to  be  alone  to- 
night— baby  and  I.  Daddy's  gone  to  the 
post,  and  you  must  care  for  us  while  he's 
away." 

She  tickled  his  nose  with  the  end  of  her 
long  shining  braid.  This  always  delighted 
the  baby,  for  in  spite  of  his  stoicism  Kazan  had 
to  sniff  and  sometimes  to  sneeze,  and  twig 
his  ears.  And  it  pleased  him,  too.  He  loved 
the  sweet  scent  of  Joan's  hair. 

"And  you'd  fight  for  us,  if  you  had  to, 
wouldn't  you?"  she  went  on.  Then  she  rose 
quietly.  "I  must  close  the  door,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  want  you  to  go  away  again  to-day, 
Kazan.  You  must  stay  with  us." 

Kazan  went  off  to  his  corner,  and  lay  down. 
Just  as  there  had  been  some  strange  thing 
at  the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock  to  disturb  him  that 
day,  so  now  there  was  a  mystery  that  disturbed 
him  in  the  cabin.  He  sniffed  the  air,  trying  to 
fathom  its  secret.  Whatever  it  was,  it  seemed 


108  KAZAN 

to  make  his  mistress  different,  too.  And  she! 
was  digging  out  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  of 
things  about  the  cabin,  and  doing  them  up  in 
packages.  Late  that  night,  before  she  went 
to  bed,  Joan  came  and  snuggled  her  hand  close 
down  beside  him  for  a  few  moments. 

"We're  going  away,"  she  whispered,  and 
there  was  a  curious  tremble  that  was  almost  a 
sob  in  her  voice.  "We're  going  home,  Kazan. 
We're  going  away  down  where  his  people  live 
— where  they  have  churches,  and  cities,  and 
music,  and  all  the  beautiful  things  in  the  world. 
And  we're  going  to  take  you,  Kazan!" 

Kazan  didn't  understand.  But  he  was 
happy  at  having  the  woman  so  near  to  him, 
and  talking  to  him.  At  these  times  he  forgot 
Gray  Wolf.  The  dog  that  was  in  him  surged 
over  his  quarter-strain  of  wildness,  and  the 
woman  and  the  baby  alone  filled  his  world. 
But  after  Joan  had  gone  to  her  bed,  and  all 
was  quiet  in  the  cabin,  his  old  uneasiness  re- 
turned. He  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved 
stealthily  about  the  cabin,  sniffing  at  the  walls, 
the  door  and  the  things  his  mistress  had  done 
into  packages.  A  low  whine  rose  in  his  throat. 
Joan,  half  asleep,  heard  it,  and  murmured; 


THE  GREAT  CHANGE         109 

"Be  quiet,  Kazan.  Go  to  sleep — go  to 
sleep—" 

Long  after  that,  Kazan  stood  rigid  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  listening,  trembling.  And 
faintly  he  heard,  far  away,  the  wailing  cry  of 
Gray  Wolf.  But  to-night  it  was  not  the  cry 
of  loneliness.  It  sent  a  thrill  through  him. 
He  ran  to  the  door,  and  whined,  but  Joan  was 
deep  in  slumber  and  did  not  hear  him.  Once 
more  he  heard  the  cry,  and  only  once.  Then 
the  night  grew  still.  He  crouched  down  near 
the  door. 

Joan  found  him  there,  still  watchful,  still 
listening,  when  she  awoke  in  the  early  morning. 
She  came  to  open  the  door  for  him,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  gone.  His  feet  seemed 
scarcely  to  touch  the  earth  as  he  sped  in  the 
direction  of  the  Sun  Rock.  Across  the  plain 
he  could  see  the  cap  of  it  already  painted  with 
a  golden  glow. 

He  came  to  the  narrow  winding  trail,  and 
wormed  his  way  up  it  swiftly. 

Gray  Wolf  was  not  at  the  top  to  greet  him. 
But  he  could  smell  her,  and  the  scent  of  that 
other  thing  was  strong  in  the  air.  His  muscles 
tightened;  his  legs  grew  tense.  Deep  down 


110  KAZAN 

in  his  chest  there  began  the  low  rumble  of  a 
growl.  He  knew  now  what  that  strange  thing 
was  that  had  haunted  him,  and  made  him  un- 
easy. It  was  life.  Something  that  lived  and 
breathed  had  invaded  the  home  which  he  and 
Gray  Wolf  had  chosen.  He  bared  his  long 
fangs,  and  a  snarl  of  defiance  drew  back  his 
lips.  Stiff -legged,  prepared  to  spring,  his 
neck  and  head  reaching  out,  he  approached 
the  two  rocks  between  which  Gray  Wolf  had 
crept  the  night  before.  She  was  still  there. 
And  with  her  was  something  else.  After  a 
moment  the  tenseness  left  Kazan's  body.  His 
bristling  crest  drooped  until  it  lay  flat.  His 
ears  shot  forward,  and  he  put  his  head  and 
shoulders  between  the  two  rocks,  and  whined 
softly.  And  Gray  Wolf  whined.  Slowly 
Kazan  backed  out,  and  faced  the  rising  sun. 
Then  he  lay  down,  so  that  his  body  shielded 
the  entrance  to  the  chamber  between  the  rocks. 
Gray  Wolf  was  a  mother. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK 

ALL  that  day  Kazan  guarded  the  top  of 
the  Sun  Rock.  Fate,  and  the  fear  and 
brutality  of  masters,  had  heretofore  kept  him 
from  fatherhood,  and  he  was  puzzled.  Some- 
thing told  him  now  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Sun  Rock,  and  not  to  the  cabin.  The  caUt 
that  came  to  him  from  over  the  plain  was  not  so 
strong.  At  dusk  Gray  Wolf  came  out  from 
her  retreat,  and  slunk  to  his  side,  whimpering, 
and  nipped  gently  at  his  shaggy  neck.  It  was 
the  old  instinct  of  his  fathers  that  made  him 
respond  by  caressing  Gray  Wolf's  face  with 
his  tongue.  Then  Gray  Wolf's  jaws  opened, 
and  she  laughed  in  short  panting  breaths,  as 
if  she  had  been  hard  run.  She  was  happy, 
and  as  they  heard  a  little  snuffling  sound  from 
between  the  rocks,  Kazan  wagged  his  tail,  and 
Gray  Wolf  darted  back  to  her  young. 

The  babyish  cry  and  its  effect  upon  Gray 

Wolf  taught  Kazan  his  first  lesson  in  father* 

111 


112  KAZAN 

hood.  Instinct  again  told  him  that  Gray 
Wolf  could  not  go  down  to  the  hunt  with  him 
now — that  she  must  stay  at  the  top  of  the  Sun 
Rock.  So  when  the  moon  rose  he  went  down 
alone,  and  toward  dawn  returned  with  a  big 
white  rabbit  between  his  jaws.  It  was  the 
wild  in  him  that  made  him  do  this,  and  Gray 
Wolf  ate  ravenously.  Then  he  knew  that  each 
night  hereafter  he  must  hunt  for  Gray  Wolf — 
and  the  little  whimpering  creatures  hidden  be- 
tween the  two  rocks. 

The  next  day,  and  still  the  next,  he  did  not 
go  to  the  cabin,  though  he  heard  the  voices  of 
both  the  man  and  the  woman  calling  him.  On 
the  fifth  he  went  down,  and  Joan  and  the  baby 
were  so  glad  that  the  woman  hugged  him,  and 
the  baby  kicked  and  laughed  and  screamed  at 
him,  while  the  man  stood  by  cautiously,  watch- 
ing their  demonstrations  with  a  gleam  of  dis- 
approbation in  his  eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  of  him,"  he  told  Joan  for  the 
hundredth  time.  "That's  the  wolf-gleam  in 
his  eyes.  He's  of  a  treacherous  breed.  Some- 
times I  wish  we'd  never  brought  him  home." 

"If  we  hadn't — where  would  the  baby — 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK  113 

have  gone?"  Joan  reminded  him,  a  little  catch 
in  her  voice. 

"I  had  almost  forgotten  that,"  said  her 
husband.  "Kazan,  you  old  devil,  I  guess  I 
love  you,  too."  He  laid  his  hand  caressingly 
on  Kazan's  head.  "Wonder  how  he'll  take 
to  life  down  there?"  he  asked.  "He  has  al- 
ways been  used  to  the  forests.  It'll  seem 
mighty  strange." 

"And  so — have  I — always  been  used  to  the 
forests,"  whispered  Joan.  "I  guess  that's 
why  I  love  Kazan — next  to  you  and  the  baby. 
Kazan — dear  old  Kazan!" 

This  time  Kazan  felt  and  scented  more  of 
that  mysterious  change  in  the  cabin.  Joan 
and  her  husband  talked  incessantly  of  their 
plans  when  they  were  together;  and  when  the 
man  was  away  Joan  talked  to  the  baby,  and 
to  him.  And  each  time  that  he  came  down  to 
the  cabin  during  the  week  that  followed,  he 
grew  more  and  more  restless,  until  at  last  the 
man  noticed  the  change  in  him. 

"I  believe  he  knows,"  he  said  to  Joan  one 
evening,  "I  believe  he  knows  we're  prepar- 
ing to  leave."  Then  he  added:  "The  river 


114  KAZAN 

was  rising  again  to-day.  It  will  be  anotiier 
week  before  we  can  start,  perhaps  longer." 

That  same  night  the  moon  flooded  the  tojJ 
of  the  Sun  Rock  with  a  golden  light,  and  out 
into  the  glow  of  it  came  Gray  Wolf,  with  her 
three  little  whelps  toddling  behind  her.  There 
was  much  about  these  soft  little  balls  that 
tumbled  about  him  and  snuggled  in  his  tawny 
coat  that  reminded  Kazan  of  the  baby.  At 
times  they  made  the  same  queer,  soft  little 
sounds,  and  they  staggered  about  on  their  four 
little  legs  just  as  helplessly  as  baby  Joan  made 
her  way  about  on  two.  He  did  not  fondl0 
them,  as  Gray  Wolf  did,  but  the  touch  of 
them,  and  their  babyish  whimperings,  filled 
him  with  a  kind  of  pleasure  that  he  had  never 
experienced  before. 

The  moon  was  straight  above  them,  and  the 
night  was  almost  as  bright  as  day,  when  he 
went  down  again  to  hunt  for  Gray  Wolf. 
At  the  foot  of  the  rock  a  big  white  rabbit 
popped  up  ahead  of  him,  and  he  gave  chase. 
For  half  a  mile  he  pursued,  until  the  wolf  in- 
stinct in  him  rose  over  the  dog,  and  he  gave 
up  the  futile  race.  A  deer  he  might  have  over- 
taken, but  small  game  the  wolf  must  hunt  a? 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK   115 

the  fox  hunts  it.  and  he  began  to  slip  through 
the  thickets  slowly  and  as  quietly  as  a  shadow. 
He  was  a  mile  from  the  Sun  Rock  when  two 
quick  leaps  put  Gray  Wolf's  supper  between 
his  jaws.  He  trotted  back  slowly,  dropping 
the  big  seven-pound  snow-shoe  hare  now  and 
then  to  rest. 

When  he  came  to  the  narrow  trail  that  led 
to  the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock  he  stopped.  In 
that  trail  was  the  warm  scent  of  strange  feetr 
The  rabbit  fell  from  his  jaws.  Every  hair  in 
his  body  was  suddenly  electrified  into  life. 
What  he  scented  was  not  the  scent  of  a  rabbit, 
a  marten  or  a  porcupine.  Fang  and  claw  had 
climbed  the  path  ahead  of  him.  And  then, 
coming  faintly  to  him  from  the  top  of  the  rock, 
he  heard  sounds  which  sent  him  up  with  a 
terrible  whining  cry.  When  he  reached  the 
summit  he  saw  in  the  white  moonlight  a  scene 
that  stopped  him  for  a  single  moment.  Close 
to  the  edge  of  the  sheer  fall  to  the  rocks,  fifty 
feet  below,  Gray  Wolf  was  engaged  in  a  death- 
struggle  with  a  huge  gray  lynx.  She  "was 
down — and  under,  and  from  her  there  came  a 
sudden  sharp  terrible  cry  of  pain. 

Kazan  flew  across  the  rock.     His  attack  was 


116  KAZAN 

the  swift  silent  assault  of  the  wolf,  combined 
with  the  greater  courage,  the  fury  and  the 
strategy  of  the  husky.  Another  husky  would 
have  died  in  that  first  attack.  But  the  lynx 
was  not  a  dog  or  a  wolf.  It  was  "Mow-lee, 
the  swift,"  as  the  Sarcees  had  named  it — the 
quickest  creature  in  the  wilderness.  Kazan's 
inch-long  fangs  should  have  sunk  deep  in  its 
jugular.  But  in  a  fractional  part  of  a  second 
the  lynx  had  thrown  itself  back  like  a  huge 
soft  ball,  and  Kazan's  teeth  buried  themselves 
in  the  flesh  of  its  neck  instead  of  the  jugular. 
And  Kazan  was  not  now  fighting  the  fangs  of 
a  wolf  in  the  pack,  or  of  another  husky.  He 
was  fighting  claws — claws  that  ripped  like 
twenty  razor-edged  knives,  and  which  even  a 
jugular  hold  could  not  stop. 

Once  he  had  fought  a  lynx  in  a  trap,  and  he 
had  not  forgotten  the  lesson  the  battle  had 
taught  him.  He  fought  to  pull  the  lynx  down, 
instead  of  forcing  it  on  its  back,  as  he  would 
have  done  with  another  dog  or  a  wolf.  He 
knew  that  when  on  its  back  the  fierce  cat  was 
most  dangerous.  One  rip  of  its  powerful 
hind-feet  could  disembowel  him. 

Behind  him  he  heard  Gray  Wolf  sobbing 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK   117 

and  crying,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  terribly 
hurto  He  was  filled  with  the  rage  and  strength 
of  two  dogs,  and  his  teeth  met  through  the 

flesh  and  hide  of  the  cat's  throat.     But  the 

• 

big  lynx  escaped  death  by  half  an  inch.  It 
would  take  a  fresh  grip  to  reach  the  jugular, 
and  suddenly  Kazan  made  the  deadly  lunge. 
There  was  an  instant's  freedom  for  the  lynx, 
and  in  that  moment  it  flung  itself  back,  and 
Kazan  gripped  at  its  throat — on  top. 

The  cat's  claws  ripped  through  his  flesh, 
cutting  open  his  side — a  little  too  high  to  kill. 
Another  stroke  and  they  would  have  cut  to  his 
vitals.  But  they  had  struggled  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  rock  wall,  and  suddenly,  without 
a  snarl  or  a  cry,  they  rolled  over.  It  was  fifty 
or  sixty  feet  to  the  rocks  of  the  ledge  below, 
and  even  as  they  pitched  over  and  over  in  the 
fall,  Kazan's  teeth  sank  deeper.  They  struck 
with  terrific  force,  Kazan  uppermost.  The 
shock  sent  him  half  a  dozen  feet  from  his  en- 
emy. He  was  up  like  a  flash,  dizzy,  snarling, 
on  the  defensive.  The  lynx  lay  limp  and  mo- 
tionless where  it  had  fallen.  Kazan  came 
nearer,  still  prepared,  and  sniffed  cautiously. 
Something  told  him  that  the  fight  was  over. 


118  KAZAN 

He  turned  and  dragged  himself  slowly  along 
the  ledge  to  the  trail,  and  returned  to  Gray 
Wolf. 

Gray  Wolf  was  no  longer  in  the  moonlight. 
Close  to  the  two  rocks  lay  the  limp  and  lifeless 
little  bodies  of  the  three  pups.  The  lynx  had 
torn  them  to  pieces.  With  a  whine  of  grief 
Kazan  approached  the  two  boulders  and  thrust 
his  head  between  them.  Gray  Wolf  was 
there,  crying  to  herself  in  that  terrible  sobbing 
way.  He  went  in,  and  began  to  lick  her  bleed- 
ing shoulders  and  head.  All  the  rest  of  that 
night  she  whimpered  with  pain.  With  dawn 
she  dragged  herself  out  to  the  lifeless  little 
bodies  on  the  rock. 

And  then  Kazan  saw  the  terrible  work  of  the 
lynx.  For  Gray  Wolf  was  blind — not  for  a 
day  or  a  night,  but  blind  for  all  time.  A 
gloom  that  no  sun  could  break  had  become  her 
shroud.  And  perhaps  again  it  was  that  in- 
stinct of  animal  creation,  which  often  is  more 
wonderful  than  man's  reason,  that  told  Kazan 
what  had  happened.  For  he  knew  now  that 
she  was  helpless — more  helpless  than  the  lit- 
tle creatures  that  had  gamboled  in  the  moon- 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK  119 

light  a  few  hours  before.  He  remained  close 
beside  her  all  that  day. 

Vainly  that  day  did  Joan  call  for  Kazan. 
Her  voice  rose  to  the  Sun  Rock,  and  Gray 
Wolf's  head  snuggled  closer  to  Kazan,  and 
Kazan's  ears  dropped  back,  and  he  licked  her 
wounds.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Kazan  left 
Gray  Wolf  long  enough  to  run  to  the  bottom 
of  the  trail  and  bring  up  the  snow-shoe  rabbit. 
Gray  Wolf  muzzled  the  fur  and  flesh,  but 
would  not  eat.  Still  a  little  later  Kazan  urged 
her  to  follow  him  to  the  trail.  He  no  longer 
wanted  to  stay  at  the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock, 
and  he  no  longer  wanted  Gray  Wolf  to  stay 
there.  Step  by  step  he  drew  her  down  the 
winding  path  away  from  her  dead  puppies. 
She  would  move  only  when  he  was  very  near 
her — so  near  that  she  could  touch  his  scarred 
flank  with  her  nose. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  point  in  the  trail 
where  they  had  to  leap  down  a  distance  of  three 
or  four  feet  from  the  edge  of  a  rock,  and  here 
Kazan  saw  how  utterly  helpless  Gray  Wolf 
had  become.  She  whined,  and  crouched 
twenty  times  before  she  dared  make  the  spring, 


120  KAZAN 

and  then  she  jumped  stiff -legged,  and  fell  in 
a  heap  at  Kazan's  feet.  After  this  Kazan 
did  not  have  to  urge  her  so  hard,  for  the  fall 
impinged  on  her  the  fact  that  she  was  safe  only 
when  her  muzzle  touched  her  mate's  flank. 
She  followed  him  obediently  when  they  reached 
the  plain,  trotting  with  her  f  oreshoulder  to  his 
hip. 

Kazan  was  heading  for  a  thicket  in  the  creek 
bottom  half  a  mile  away,  and  a  dozen  times 
in  that  short  distance  Gray  Wolf  stumbled 
and  fell.  And  each  time  that  she  fell  Kazan 
learned  a  little  more  of  the  limitations  of  blind- 
ness. Once  he  sprang  off  in  pursuit  of  a  rab- 
bit, but  he  had  not  taken  twenty  leaps  when  he 
stopped  and  looked  back.  Gray  Wolf  had 
not  moved  an  inch.  She  stood  motionless, 
sniffing  the  air — waiting  for  him!  For  a  full 
minute  Kazan  stood,  also  waiting.  Then  he 
returned  to  her.  Ever  after  this  he  returned 
to  the  point  where  he  had  left  Gray  Wolf, 
knowing  that  he  would  find  her  there. 

All  that  day  they  remained  in  the  thicket. 
In  the  afternoon  he  visited  the  cabin.  Joan 
and  her  husband  were  there,  and  both  saw  at 


once  Kazan's  torn  side  and  his  lacerated  head 
and  shoulders. 

"Pretty  near  a  finish  fight  for  him,"  said 
the  man,  after  he  had  examined  him.  "It  was 
either  a  lynx  or  a  bear.  Another  wolf  could 
not  do  that." 

For  half  an  hour  Joan  worked  over  him, 
talking  to  him  all  the  time,  and  fondling  him 
with  her  soft  hands.  She  bathed  his  wounds  in 
warm  water,  and  then  covered  them  with  a 
healing  salve,  and  Kazan  was  filled  again  with 
that  old  restful  desire  to  remain  with  her  al- 
ways, and  never  to  go  back  into  the  forests. 
For  an  hour  she  let  him  lie  on  the  edge  of  her 
dress,  with  his  nose  touching  her  foot,  while  she 
worked  on  baby  things.  Then  she  rose  to  pre- 
pare supper,  and  Kazan  got  up — a  little 
wearily — and  went  to  the  door.  Gray  Wolf 
and  the  gloom  of  the  night  were  calling  him, 
and  he  answered  that  call  with  a  slouch  of  his 
shoulders  and  a  drooping  head.  Its  old  thrill 
was  gone.  He  watched  his  chance,  and  went 
out  through  the  door.  The  moon  had  risen 
when  he  rejoined  Gray  Wolf.  She  greeted 
his  return  with  a  low  whine  of  joy,  and  inuz- 


122  KAZAN 

zled  him  with  her  blind  face.  In  her  helpless- 
ness she  looked  happier  than  Kazan  in  all  his 
strength. 

From  now  on,  during  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed, it  was  a  last  great  fight  between  blind 
and  faithful  Gray  Wolf  and  the  woman.  If 
Joan  had  known  of  what  lay  in  the  thicket,  if 
she  could  once  have  seen  the  poor  creature  to 
whom  Kazan  was  now  all  life — the  sun,  the 
stars,  the  moon,  and  food — she  would  have 
helped  Gray  Wolf.  But  as  it  was  she  tried 
to  lure  Kazan  more  and  more  to  the  cabin,  and 
slowly  she  won. 

At  last  the  great  day  came,  eight  days  after 
the  fight  on  the  Sun  Rock.  Kazan  had  taken 
Gray  Wolf  to  a  wooaed  point  on  the  river  two 
days  before,  and  there  he  had  left  her  the  pre- 
ceding night  when  he  went  to  the  cabin.  This 
time  a  stout  babiche  thong  was  tied  to  the  col- 
lar round  his  neck,  and  he  was  fastened  to  a 
staple  in  the  log  wall.  Joan  and  her  husband 
were  up  before  it  was  light  next  day.  The 
sun  was  just  rising  when  they  all  went  out, 
the  man  carrying  the  baby,  and  Joan  leading 
lainio  Joan  turned  and  locked  the  cabin  door, 
and  Kazan  heard  a  sob  in  her  throat  as  they 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK  123 

followed  the  man  down  to  the  river.  The  big 
canoe  was  packed  and  waiting.  Joan  got  in 
first,  with  the  baby.  Then,  still  holding  the 
babiche  thong,  she  drew  Kazan  up  close  to 
her,  so  that  he  lay  with  his  weight  against  her. 

The  sun  fell  warmly  on  Kazan's  back  as 
they  shoved  off,  and  he  closed  his  eyes,  and 
rested  his  head  on  Joan's  lap.  Her  hand  fell 
softly  on  his  shoulder.  He  heard  again  that 
sound  which  the  man  could  not  hear,  the  broken 
sob  in  her  throat,  as  the  canoe  moved  slowly 
down  to  the  wooded  point. 

Joan  waved  her  hand  back  at  the  cabin,  just 
'disappearing  behind  the  trees. 

"Good-by!"  she  cried  sadly.  "Good-by— " 
And  then  she  buried  her  face  close  down  to 
Kazan  and  the  baby,  and  sobbed. 

The  man  stopped  paddling. 

"You're  not  sorry — Joan?"  he  asked. 

They  were  drifting  past  the  point  now,  and 
the  scent  of  Gray  Wolf  came  to  Kazan's  nos- 
trils, rousing  him,  and  bringing  a  low  whine 
from  his  throat. 

"You're  not  sorry — we're  going?"  Joan 
shook  her  head. 

"No,"    she   replied.      "Only   I've — always 


124  KAZAN 

lived    here — in    the    forests — and    they're — 
home!" 

The  point  with  its  white  finger  of  sand, 
was  behind  them  now.  And  Kazan  was 
standing  rigid,  facing  it.  The  man  called  to 
him,  and  Joan  lifted  her  head.  She,  too, 
saw  the  point,  and  suddenly  the  babiche 
leash  slipped  from  her  fingers,  and  a  strange 
light  leaped  into  her  blue  eyes  as  she  saw  what 
stood  at  the  end  of  that  white  tip  of  sand. 
It  was  Gray  Wolf.  Her  blind  eyes  were 
turned  toward  Kazan.  At  last  Gray  Wolf, 
the  faithful,  understood.  Scent  told  her  what 
her  eyes  could  not  see.  Kazan  and  the  man- 
smell  were  together.  And  they  were  going — * 
going— going— 

"Look!"  whispered  Joan. 

The  man  turned.  Gray  Wolf's  forefeet 
were  in  the  water.  And  now,  as  the  canoe 
drifted  farther  and  farther  away,  she  settled 
back  on  her  haunches,  raised  her  head  to  the 
sun  which  she  could  not  see  and  gave  her  last 
long  wailing  cry  for  Kazan. 

The  canoe  lurched.  A  tawny  body  shot 
through  the  air — and  Kazan  was  gone. 

The   man   reached   forward   for   his   rifle. 


!THE  TRAGEDY  ON  SUN  ROCK    125 

Joan's  hand  stopped  him.  Her  face  was 
white. 

"Let  him  go  back  to  her!  Let  him  go — let 
him  go !"  she  cried.  "It  is  his  place — with  her." 

And  Kazan  reaching  the  shore,  shook  the 
water  from  his  shaggy  hair,  and  looked  for  the 
last  time  toward  the  woman.  The  canoe 
was  drifting  slowly  around  the  first  bend.  A 
moment  more  and  it  had  disappeared.  Gray 
Wolf  had  won. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   DAYS   OF    FIRE 

FROM  the  night  of  the  terrible  fight  with 
the  big  gray  lynx  on  the  top  of  the  Sun 
Rock,  Kazan  remembered  less  and  less  vividly 
the  old  days  when  he  had  been  a  sledge-dog, 
and  the  leader  of  a  pack.  He  would  never 
quite  forget  them,  and  always  there  would 
stand  out  certain  memories  from  among  the 
rest,  like  fires  cutting  the  blackness  of  night. 
But  as  man  dates  events  from  his  birth,  his 
marriage,  his  freedom  from  a  bondage,  or 
some  foundation-step  in  his  career,  so  all 
things  seemed  to  Kazan  to  begin  with  two 
tragedies  which  had  followed  one  fast  upon  the 
other  after  the  birth  of  Gray  Wolf's  pups. 

The  first  was  the  fight  on  the  Sun  Rock, 
when  the  big  gray  lynx  had  blinded  his  beauti- 
ful wolf  mate  for  all  time,  and  had  torn  hei 
pups  into  pieces.  He  in  turn  had  killed  the 
lynx.  But  Gray  Wolf  was  still  blind.  Ven* 

196 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE         127 

geance  had  not  been  able  to  give  her  sight. 
She  could  no  longer  hunt  with  him,  as  they 
>had  hunted  with  the  wild  wolf -packs  out  on  the 
plain,  and  in  the  dark  forests.  So  at  thought 
of  that  night  he  always  snarled,  and  his  lips 
curled  back  to  reveal  his  inch-long  fangs. 

The  other  tragedy  was  the  going  of  Joan, 
her  baby  and  her  husband.  Something  more 
infallible  than  reason  told  Kazan  that  they 
would  not  come  back.  Brightest  of  all  the 
pictures  that  remained  with  him  was  that  of 
the  sunny  morning  when  the  woman  and  the 
baby  he  loved,  and  the  man  he  endured  be- 
cause of  them,  had  gone  away  in  the  canoe, 
and  often  he  would  go  to  the  point,  and  gaze 
longingly  down-stream,  where  he  had  leaped 
from  the  canoe  to  return  to  his  blind  mate. 

So  Kazan's  life  seemed  now  to  be  made  up 
chiefly  of  three  things:  his  hatred  of  everything 
that  bore  the  scent  or  mark  of  the  lynx,  his 
grieving  for  Joan  and  the  baby,  and  Gray 
Wolf.  It  was  natural  that  the  strongest 
passion  in  him  should  be  his  hatred  of  the  lynx, 
for  not  only  Gray  Wolf's  blindness  and  the 
death  of  the  pups,  but  even  the  loss  of  the 
woman  and  the  baby  he  laid  to  that  fatal 


128  KAZAN 

struggle  on  the  Sun  Rock.  From  that  hour 
he  became  the  deadliest  enemy  of  the  lynx 
tribe.  Wherever  he  struck  the  scent  of  the 
big  gray  cat  he  was  turned  into  a  snarling  de- 
mon, and  his  hatred  grew  day  by  day,  as  he 
became  more  completely  a  part  of  the  wild. 

He  found  that  Gray  Wolf  was  more  nec- 
essary to  him  now  than  she  had  ever  been  since 
the  day  she  had  left  the  wolf -pack  for  him. 
He  was  three-quarters  dog,  and  the  dog-part 
of  him  demanded  companionship.  There  was 
only  Gray  Wolf  to  give  him  that  now.  They 
were  alone.  Civilization  was  four  hundred 
miles  south  of  them.  The  nearest  Hudson's 
Bay  post  was  sixty  miles  to  the  west.  Often, 
in  the  days  of  the  woman  and  the  baby,  Gray 
Wolf  had  spent  her  nights  alone  out  in  the 
forest,  waiting  and  calling  for  Kazan.  Now 
it  was  Kazan  who  was  lonely  and  uneasy  when 
he  was  away  from  her  side. 

In  her  blindness  Gray  Wolf  could  no 
longer  hunt  with  her  mate.  But  gradually  a 
new  code  of  understanding  grew  up  between 
them,  and  through  her  blindness  they  learned 
many  things  that  they  had  not  known  before. 
By  early  summer  Gray  Wolf  could  travel 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE  129 

with  Kazan,  if  he  did  not  move  too  swiftly. 
She  ran  at  his  flank,  with  her  shoulder  op 
muzzle  touching  him,  and  Kazan  learned  not 
to  leap,  but  to  trot.  Very  quickly  he  found 
that  he  must  choose  the  easiest  trails  for  Gray 
Wolf's  feet.  When  they  came  to  a  space  to 
be  bridged  by  a  leap,  he  would  muzzle  Gray 
Wolf  and  whine,  and  she  would  stand  with 
ears  alert — listening.  Then  Kazan  would 
take  the  leap,  and  she  understood  the  distance 
she  had  to  cover.  She  always  over-leaped, 
which  was  a  good  fault. 

In  another  way,  and  one  that  was  destined 
to  serve  them  many  times  in  the  future,  she 
became  of  greater  help  than  ever  to  Kazan. 
Scent  and  hearing  entirely  took  the  place  of 
sight.  Each  day  developed  these  senses  more 
and  more,  and  at  the  same  time  there  developed 
between  them  the  dumb  language  whereby  she 
could  impress  upon  Kazan  what  she  had  dis- 
covered by  scent  or  sound.  It  became  a  cu- 
rious habit  of  Kazan's  always  to  look  at  Gray 
Wolf  when  they  stopped  to  listen,  or  to  scent 
the  air. 

After  the  fight  on  the  Sun  Rock,  Kazan  had 
taken  his  blind  mate  to  a  thick  clump  of  spruce 


180  KAZAN 

and  balsam  in  the  river-bottom,  where  they  re- 
mained until  early  summer.  Every  day  for 
weeks  Kazan  went  to  the  cabin  where  Joan 
and  the  baby — and  the  man — had  been.  For 
a  long  time  he  went  hopefully,  looking  each 
day  or  night  to  see  some  sign  of  life  there. 
But  the  door  was  never  open.  The  boards 
and  saplings  at  the  windows  always  remained. 
Never  a  spiral  of  smoke  rose  from  the  clay 
chimney.  Grass  and  vines  began  to  grow  in 
the  path.  And  fainter  and  fainter  grew  that 
scent  which  Kazan  could  still  find  about  it — 
the  scent  of  man,  of  the  woman,  the  baby. 

One  day  he  found  a  little  baby  moccasin 
under  one  of  the  closed  windows.  It  was  old, 
and  worn  out,  and  blackened  by  snow  and 
rain,  but  he  lay  down  beside  it,  and  remained 
there  for  a  long  time,  while  the  baby  Joan — 
a  thousand  miles  away — was  playing  with  the 
strange  toys  of  civilization.  Then  he  returned 
to  Gray  Wolf  among  the  spruce  and  bal- 
sam. 

The  cabin  was  the  one  place  to  which  Gray 
Wolf  would  not  follow  him.  At  all  other 
times  she  was  at  his  side.  Now  that  she  had 
become  accustomed  to  blindness,  she  even  ac- 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE  181 

companied  him  on  his  hunts,  until  he  struck 
game,  and  began  the  chase.  Then  she  would 
wait  for  him.  Kazan  usually  hunted  the  big 
snow-shoe  rabbits.  But  one  night  he  ran  down 
and  killed  a  young  doe.  The  kill  was  too 
heavy  to  drag  to  Gray  Wolf,  so  he  returned  to 
where  she  was  waiting  for  him  and  guided  her 
to  the  feast.  In  many  ways  they  became 
more  and  more  inseparable  as  the  summer 
lengthened,  until  at  last,  through  all  the  wil- 
derness, their  footprints  were  always  two  by 
two  and  never  one  by  one. 

Then  came  the  great  fire. 

Gray  Wolf  caught  the  scent  of  it  when  it 
was  still  two  days  to  the  west.  The  sun  that 
night  went  down  in  a  lurid  cloud.  The  moon, 
drifting  into  the  west,  became  blood  red. 
When  it  dropped  behind  the  wilderness  in 
this  manner,  the  Indians  called  it  the  Bleeding 
Moon,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  omens. 

All  the  next  day  Gray  Wolf  was  nervous, 
and  toward  noon  Kazan  caught  in  the  air  the 
warning  that  she  had  sensed  many  hours  ahead 
of  him.  Steadily  the  scent  grew  stronger,  and 
by  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  sun  was 
veiled  by  a  film  of  smoke. 


132  KAZAN 

The  flight  of  the  wild  things  from  the  tri- 
angle of  forest  between  the  junctions  of  the 
Pipestone  and  Cree  Rivers  would  have  begun 
then,  but  the  wind  shifted.  It  was  a  fatal 
shift.  The  fire  was  raging  from  the  west  and 
south.  Then  the  wind  swept  straight  east- 
ward, carrying  the  smoke  with  it,  and  during 
this  breathing  spell  all  the  wild  creatures  in 
the  triangle  between  the  two  rivers  waited. 
This  gave  the  fire  time  to  sweep  completely 
across  the  base  of  the  forest  triangle,  cutting 
off  the  last  trails  of  escape. 

Then  the  wind  shifted  again,  and  the  fire 
swept  north.  The  head  of  the  triangle  be- 
came a  death-trap.  All  through  the  night  the 
southern  sky  was  filled  with  a  lurid  glow,  and 
by  morning  the  heat  and  smoke  and  ash  were 
suffocating. 

Panic-striken,  Kazan  searched  vainly  for  a 
means  of  escape.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he 
leave  Gray  Wolf.  It  would  have  been  easy 
for  him  to  swim  across  either  of  the  two 
streams,  for  he  was  three-quarters  dog.  But 
at  the  first  touch  of  water  on  her  paws,  Gray 
Wolf  drew  back,  shrinking.  Like  all  her 
breed,  she  would  face  fire  and  death  before 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE  133 

water.  Kazan  urged.  A  dozen  times  he 
leaped  in,  and  swam  out  into  the  stream.  But 
Gray  Wolf  would  come  no  farther  than  she 
could  wade. 

They  could  hear  the  distant  murmuring 
roar  of  the  fire  now.  Ahead  of  it  came  the 
wild  things.  Moose,  caribou  and  deer 
plunged  into  the  water  of  the  streams  and 
swam  to  the  safety  of  the  opposite  side.  Out 
upon  a  white  finger  of  sand  lumbered  a  big 
black  bear  with  two  cubs,  and  even  the  cubs 
took  to  the  water,  and  swam  across  easily. 
Kazan  watched  them,  and  whined  to  Gray 
Wolf. 

And  then  out  upon  that  white  finger  of  sand 
came  other  things  that  dreaded  the  water  as 
Gray  Wolf  dreaded  it:  a  big  fat  porcupine, 
a  sleek  little  marten,  a  fisher-cat  that  sniffed 
the  air  and  wailed  like  a  child.  Those  things 
that  could  not  or  would  not  swim  outnumbered 
the  others  three  to  one.  Hundreds  of  little 
ermine  scurried  along  the  shore  like  rats,  their 
squeaking  little  voices  sounding  incessantly; 
foxes  ran  swiftly  along  the  banks,  seeking  a 
tree  or  a  windfall  that  might  bridge  the  water 
for  them;  the  lynx  snarled  and  faced  the  fire 3 


134,  KAZAN 

and  Gray  Wolf's  own  tribe — the  wolves*— i 
dared  take  no  deeper  step  than  she. 

Dripping  and  panting,  and  half  choked  by 
heat  and  smoke,  Kazan  came  to  Gray  Wolf's 
side.  There  was  but  one  refuge  left  near 
them,  and  that  was  the  sand-bar.  It  reached 
out  for  fifty  feet  into  the  stream.  Quickly 
he  led  his  blind  mate  toward  it.  As  they  came 
through  the  low  bush  to  the  river-bed,  some- 
thing stopped  them  both.  To  their  nostrils 
had  come  the  scent  of  a  deadlier  enemy  than 
fire.  A  lynx  had  taken  possession  of  the 
sand-bar,  and  was  crouching  at  the  end  of  it. 
Three  porcupines  had  dragged  themselves  into 
the  edge  of  the  water,  and  lay  there  like  balls, 
their  quills  alert  and  quivering.  A  fisher-cat 
was  snarling  at  the  lynx.  And  the  lynx,  with 
ears  laid  back,  watched  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf 
as  they  began  the  invasion  of  the  sand-bar. 

Faithful  Gray  Wolf  was  full  of  fight,  and 
she  sprang  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Kazan, 
her  fangs  bared.  With  an  angry  snap,  Kazan 
drove  her  back,  and  she  stood  quivering  and 
whining  while  he  advanced.  Light-footed, 
his  pointed  ears  forward,  no  menace  or  threat 
in  his  attitude,  he  advanced.  It  was  the 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE  135 

deadly  advance  of  the  husky  trained  in  battle, 
skilled  in  the  art  of  killing.  A  man  from  civ- 
ilization would  have  said  that  the  dog  was 
approaching  the  lynx  with  friendly  intentions. 
But  the  lynx  understood.  It  was  the  old  feud 
of  many  generations — made  deadlier  now  by 
Kazan's  memory  of  that  night  at  the  top  of 
the  Sun  Rock. 

Instinct  told  the  fisher-cat  what  was  coming, 
and  it  crouched  low  and  flat;  the  porcupines, 
scolding  like  little  children  at  the  presence  of 
enemies  and  the  thickening  clouds  of  smoke, 
thrust  their  quills  still  more  erect.  The  lynx 
lay  on  its  belly,  like  a  cat,  its  hindquarters 
twitching,  and  gathered  for  the  spring. 
Kazan's  feet  seemed  scarcely  to  touch  the  sand 
as  he  circled  lightly  around  it.  The  lynx 
pivoted  as  he  circled,  and  then  it  shot  in  a 
round  snarling  ball  over  the  eight  feet  of 
space  that  separated  them. 

Kazan  did  not  leap  aside.  He  made  no 
eff ort  to  escape  the  attack,  but  met  it  fairly 
with  the  full  force  of  his  shoulders,  as  sledge- 
dog  meets  sledge-dog.  He  was  ten  pounds 
heavier  than  the  lynx,  and  for  a  moment  the 
big  loose- jointed  cat  with  its  twenty 


186  KAZAN 

like  claws  was  thrown  on  its  side.  Like  a 
flash  Kazan  took  advantage  of  the  moment, 
and  drove  for  the  back  of  the  cat's  neck. 

In  that  same  moment  blind  Gray  Wolf 
leaped  in  with  a  snarling  cry,  and  fighting 
tinder  Kazan's  belly,  she  fastened  her  jaws  in 
one  of  the  cat's  hindlegs.  The  bone  snapped. 
The  lynx,  twice  outweighed,  leaped  backward, 
dragging  both  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf.  It 
fell  back  down  on  one  of  the  porcupines,  and 
a  hundred  quills  drove  into  its  body.  Another 
leap  and  it  was  free — fleeing  into  the  face  of 
the  smoke.  Kazan  did  not  pursue.  Gray 
Wolf  came  to  his  side  and  licked  his  neck, 
where  fresh  blood  was  crimsoning  his  tawny 
hide.  The  fisher-cat  lay  as  if  dead,  watching 
them  with  fierce  little  black  eyes.  The  porcu- 
pines continued  to  chatter,  as  if  begging  for 
mercy.  And  then  a  thick  black  suffocating 
pall  of  smoke  drove  low  over  the  sand-bar  and 
with  it  came  air  that  was  furnace-hot. 

At  che  uttermost  end  of  the  sand-bar 
Xazan  and  Gray  Wolf  rolled  themselves  into 
balls  and  thrust  their  heads  under  their  bodies. 
The  fire  was  very  near  now.  The  roar  of  it 
was  like  that  of  a  great  cataract,  with 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE          137 

and  then  a  louder  crash  of  falling  trees.  The 
air  was  filled  with  ash  and  burning  sparks, 
and  twice  Kazan  drew  forth  his  head  to  snap 
at  blazing  embers  that  fell  upon  and  seared 
him  like  hot  irons. 

Close  along  the  edge  of  the  stream  grew 
thick  green  bush,  and  when  the  fire  reached 
this,  it  burned  more  slowly,  and  the  heat 
grew  less.  Still,  it  was  a  long  time  before 
Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  could  draw  forth 
their  heads  and  breathe  more  freely.  Then 
they  found  that  the  finger  of  sand  reaching  out 
into  the  river  had  saved  them.  Everywhere 
in  that  triangle  between  the  two  rivers  the 
world  had  turned  black,  and  was  hot  under- 
foot. 

The  smoke  cleared  away.  The  wind 
changed  again,  and  swung  down  cool  and  fresh 
from  the  west  and  north.  The  fisher-cat  was 
the  first  to  move  cautiously  back  to  the  for* 
ests  that  had  been,  but  the  porcupines  were 
still  rolled  into  balls  when  Gray  Wolf  and 
Kazan  left  the  sand-bar.  They  began  tc 
travel  up-stream,  and  before  night  came,  theJx 
feet  were  sore  from  hot  ash  and  burning 
embers. 


138  KAZAN 

The  moon  was  strange  and  foreboding  that 
night,  like  a  spatter  of  blood  in  the  sky,  and 
through  the  long  silent  hours  there  was  not 
even  the  hoot  of  an  owl  to  give  a  sign  that 
life  still  existed  where  yesterday  had  been  a 
paradise  of  wild  things.  Kazan  knew  that 
there  was  nothing  to  hunt,  and  they  continued 
to  travel  all  that  night.  With  dawn  they 
struck  a  narrow  swamp  along  the  edge  of  the 
stream.  Here  beavers  had  built  a  dam,  and 
they  were  able  to  cross  over  into  the  green 
country  on  the  opposite  side.  For  another 
day  and  another  night  they  traveled  west- 
ward, and  this  brought  them  into  the  thick 
country  of  swamp  and  timber  along  the 
Waterfound. 

And  as  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  came  from 
the  west,  there  came  from  the  Hudson's  Bay 
post  to  the  east  a  slim  dark-faced  French  half- 
breed  by  the  name  of  Henri  Loti,  the  most 
famous  lynx  hunter  in  all  the  Hudson's  Bay 
country.  He  was  prospecting  for  "signs," 
and  he  found  them  in  abundance  along  the 
Waterfound.  It  was  a  game  paradise,  and 
the  snow-shoe  rabbit  abounded  in  thousands. 
As  a  consequence,  the  lynxes  were  thick,  and 


THE  DAYS  OF  FIRE  139 

Henri  built  his  trapping  shack,  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  post  to  wait  until  the  first  snows 
fell,  when  he  would  come  back  with  his  team, 
supplies  and  traps. 

And  up  from  the  south,  at  this  same  time, 
there  was  slowly  working  his  way  by  canoe 
and  trail  a  young  university  zoologist  who  was 
gathering  material  for  a  book  on  The  Rea- 
soning of  the  Wild.  His  name  was  Pau: 
Weyman,  and  he  had  made  arrangements  to 
spend  a  part  of  the  winter  with  Henri  Loti, 
the  half-breed.  He  brought  with  him  plenty 
of  paper,  a  camera  and  the  photograph  of  a 
girl.  His  only  weapon  was  a  pocket-knife. 

And  meanwhile  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf 
found  the  home  they  were  seeking  in  a  thick 
swamp  five  or  six  miles  from  the  cabin  that 
Henri  Loti  had  built. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ALWAYS  TWO    BY   TWO 

IT  was  January  when  a  guide  from  the  post 
brought  Paul  Weyman  to  Henri  Loti's 
cabin  on  the  Waterfound.  He  was  a  man  of 
thirty-two  or  three,  full  of  the  red-blooded  life 
that  made  Henri  like  him  at  once.  If  this 
had  not  been  the  case,  the  first  few  days  in 
the  cabin  might  have  been  unpleasant,  foi 
Henri  was  in  bad  humor.  He  told  Weyman 
about  it  their  first  night,  as  they  were  smok- 
ing pipes  alongside  the  redly  glowing  box 
stove. 

"It  is  damn  strange,"  said  Henri.  "I  have 
lost  seven  lynx  in  the  traps,  torn  to  pieces 
like  they  were  no  more  than  rabbits  that  the 
foxes  had  killed.  No  thing — not  even  bear — 
have  ever  tackled  lynx  in  a  trap  before.  It 
is  the  first  time  I  ever  see  it.  And  they  are 
torn  up  so  bad  they  are  not  worth  one  half 
dollar  at  the  post.  Seven! — that  is  over  two 

140 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       141 

hundred  dollar  I  have  lost!  There  are  two 
wolves  who  do  it.  Two — I  know  it  by  the 
tracks — always  two — an' — never  one.  They 
follow  my  trap-line  an'  eat  the  rabbits  I  catch. 
They  leave  the  fisher-cat,  an'  the  mink,  an'  the 
ermine,  an'  the  marten;  but  the  lynx — sacre 
an'  damn! — they  jump  on  him  an'  pull  the  fur 
from  him  like  you  pull  the  wild  cotton  balls 
from  the  burn-bush!  I  have  tried  strychnine 
in  deer  fat,  an'  I  have  set  traps  and  deadfalls, 
but  I  can  not  catch  them.  They  will  drive  me 
out  unless  I  get  them,  for  I  have  taken  only 
five  good  lynx,  an'  they  have  destroyed 


seven." 


This  roused  Weyman.  He  was  one  of  that 
growing  number  of  thoughtful  men  who  be- 
lieve that  man's  egoism,  as  a  race,  blinds  him 
to  many  of  the  more  wonderful  facts  of  crea- 
tion. He  had  thrown  down  the  gantlet,  and 
with  a  logic  that  had  gained  him  a  nation-wide 
hearing,  to  those  who  believed  that  man  was 
the  only  living  creature  who  could  reason,  and 
that  common  sense  and  cleverness  when  dis- 
played by  any  other  breathing  thing  were 
merely  instinct.  The  facts  behind  Henri's 
tale  of  woe  struck  him  as  important,  and  until 


142  KAZAN 

midnight  they  talked  about  the  two  strange 
wolves, 

"There  is  one  big  wolf  an*  one  smaller,*' 
said  Henri.  "An*  it  is  always  the  big  wolf 
who  goes  in  an'  fights  the  lynx.  I  see  that  by 
the  snow.  While  he's  fighting,  the  smaller 
wolf  makes  many  tracks  in  the  snow  just  out 
of  reach,  an'  then  when  the  lynx  is  down,  or 
dead,  it  jumps  in  an'  helps  tear  it  into  pieces. 
All  that  I  know  by  the  snow.  Only  once  have 
I  seen  where  the  smaller  one  went  in  an'  fought 
>with  the  other,  an'  then  there  was  blood  all 
about  that  was  not  lynx  blood;  I  trailed  the 
devils  a  mile  by  the  dripping." 

During  the  two  weeks  that  followed,  Wey- 
man  found  much  to  add  to  the  material  of  his 
book.  Not  a  day  passed  that  somewhere 
along  Henri's  trap-line  they  did  not  see  the 
trails  of  the  two  wolves,  and  Weyman  ob- 
served that — as  Henri  had  told  him — the  foot- 
t 

prints  were  always  two  by  two,  and  never  one 
by  one.  On  the  third  day  they  came  to  a  trap 
that  had  held  a  lynx,  and  at  sight  of  what  re- 
mained Henri  cursed  in  both  French  and 
English  until  he  was  purple  in  tjie  face.  The 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       143 

lynx  had  been  torn  until  its  pelt  was  prac- 
tically worthless. 

Weyman  saw  where  the  smaller  wolf  had 
waited  on  its  haunches,  while  its  companion 
had  killed  the  lynx.  He  did  not  tell  Henri  all 
he  thought.  But  the  days  that  followed  con- 
vinced him  more  and  more  that  he  had  found 
the  most  dramatic  exemplification  of  his  the- 
ory. Back  of  this  mysterious  tragedy  of  the 
trap-line  there  was  a  reason. 

Why  did  the  two  wolves  not  destroy  the  fish- 
er-cat, the  ermine  and  the  marten?  Why  was 
their  feud  with  the  lynx  alone? 

Weyman  was  strangely  thrilled.  He  was 
a  lover  of  wild  things,  and  for  that  reason  he 
never  carried  a  gun.  And  when  he  saw  Henri 
placing  poison-baits  for  the  two  marauders, 
he  shuddered,  and  when,  day  after  day,  he 
saw  that  these  poison-baits  were  untouched, 
he  rejoiced.  Something  in  his  own  nature 
went  out  in  sympathy  to  the  heroic  outlaw  of 
the  trap-line  who  never  failed  to  give  battle 
to  the  lynx.  Nights  in  the  cabin  he  wrote 
down  his  thoughts  and  discoveries  of  the  day. 
One  night  he  turned  suddenly  on  Henri, 


144  KAZAN 

"Henri,  doesn't  it  ever  make  you  sorry  to 
kill  so  many  wild  things?"  he  asked. 

Henri  stared  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  kill  t'ousand  an'  t'ousand,"  he  said.  "I 
'kill  t'ousand  more." 

"And  there  are  twenty  thousand  others  just 
like  you  in  this  northern  quarter  of  the  con- 
tinent— all  killing,  killing  for  hundreds  of 
years  back,  and  yet  you  can't  kill  out  wild  life. 
The  war  of  Man  and  the  Beast,  you  might  call 
it.  And,  if  you  could  return  five  hundred 
years  from  now,  Henri,  you'd  still  find  wild 
life  here./,  Nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is 
changing,  but  you  can't  change  these  almost 
impenetrable  thousands  of  square  miles  of 
ridges  and  swamps  and  forests.  The  rail- 
roadsr  won't  come  here,  and  I,  for  one,  thank 
God  for  that.  Take  all  the  great  prairies  to 
the  w£st,  for  instance.  Why,  the  old  buffalo 
trails  are  still  there,  plain  as  day — and  yet, 
towns  aud  cities  are  growing  up  everywhere. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  North  Battleford?" 

"Is  she  near  Montreal  or  Quebec?"  Hfari 
asked. 

Weyman  smiled,  and  drew  a  photograpH 
from  his  pocket.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  girl. 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       145 

"No.  It's  far  to  the  west,  in  Saskatche- 
wan. Seven  years  ago  I  used  to  go  up  there 
every  year,  to  shoot  prairie  chickens,  coyotes 
and  elk.  There  wasn't  any  North  Battleford 
then — just  the  glorious  prairie,  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  square  miles  of  it.  There  was 
a  single  shack  on  the  Saskatchewan  River, 
where  North  Battleford  now  stands,  and  I 
used  to  stay  there.  In  that  shack  there  was 
a  little  girl,  twelve  years  old.  We  used  to 
go  out  hunting  together — for  I  used  to  kill 
things  in  those  days.  And  the  little  girl 
would  cry  sometimes  when  I  killed,  and  I'd 
laugh  at  her. 

"Then  a  railroad  came,  and  then  another, 
and  they  joined  near  the  shack,  and  all  at  once 
a  town  sprang  up.  Seven  years  ago  there 
was  only  the  shack  there,  Henri.  Two  years 
ago  there  were  eighteen  hundred  people. 
This  year,  when  I  came  through,  there  were 
five  thousand,  and  two  years  from  now  there'll 
be  ten  thousand. 

"On  the  ground  where  that  shack  stood  are 
three  banks,  with  a  capital  of  forty  million 
dollars;  you  can  see  the  glow  of  the  electric 
lights  of  the  city  twenty  miles  away.  It  has 


14.6  KAZAN 

a  hundred-thousand  dollar  college,  a  high 
school,  the  provincial  asylum,  a  fire  depart- 
ment, two  clubs,  a  board  of  trade,  and  it's  go- 
ing to  have  a  street-car  line  within  two  years. 
Think  of  that — all  where  the  coyotes  howled 
a  few  years  ago ! 

"People  are  coming  in  so  fast  that  they 
can't  keep  a  census.  Five  years  from  now 
there'll  be  a  city  of  twenty  thousand  where  the 
old  shack  stood.  And  the  little  girl  in  th&t 
shack,  Henri — she's  a  young  lady  now,  and 
her  people  are — well,  rich.  I  don't  care  about 
that.  The  chief  thing  is  that  she  is  going  to 
marry  me  in  the  spring.  Because  of  her  I 
stopped  killing  things  when  she  was  only  six- 
teen. The  last  thing  I  killed  was  a  prairie 
wolf,  and  it  had  young.  Eileen  kept  the  little 
puppy.  She's  got  it  now — tamed.  That's 
why  above  all  other  wild  things  I  love  the 
wolves.  And  I  hope  these  two  leave  your 
trap-line  safe." 

Henri  was  staring  at  him.  Weyman  gave 
him  the  picture.  It  was  of  a  sweet-faced  girl, 
with  deep  pure  eyes,  and  there  came  a  twitch 
at  the  corners  of  Henri's  mouth  as  he  looked 
at  it. 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       14,7 

"My  lowaka  died  t'ree  year  ago,"  he  said. 
"She  too  loved  the  wild  thing.  But  them 
wolf — damn!  They  drive  me  out  if  I  can  not 
kill  them!"  He  put  fresh  fuel  into  the  stove, 
ind  prepared  for  bed. 

One  day  the  big  idea  came  to  Henri. 

Weyman  was  with  him  when  they  struck 
fresh  signs  of  lynx.  There  was  a  great  wind- 
fall ten  or  fifteen  feet  high,  and  in  one  place  the 
logs  had  formed  a  sort  of  cavern,  with  almost 
solid  walls  on  three  sides.  The  snow  was 
beaten  down  by  tracks,  and  the  fur  of  rabbit 
was  scattered  about.  Henri  was  jubilant. 

"We  got  heem — sure!"  he  said. 

He  built  the  bait-house,  set  a  trap  and 
looked  about  him  shrewdly  Then  he  ex- 
plained his  scheme  to  Weyman.  If  the  lynx 
was  caught,  and  the  two  wolves  came  to  de- 
stroy it,  the  fight  would  take  place  in  that 
shelter  under  the  windfall,  and  the  marauders 
would  have  to  pass  through  the  opening.  So 
Henri  set  five  smaller  traps,  concealing  them 
skilfully  under  leaves  and  moss  and  snow, 
and  all  were  far  enough  away  from  the  bait- 
house  so  that  the  trapped  lynx  could  not 
spring  them  in  his  struggles. 


148  KAZAN 

"When  they  fight,  wolf  jump  this  way  an 
that — an'  sure  get  in,"  said  Henri.  "He  miss 
one,  two,  free — but  he  sure  get  in  trap  some- 
where." 

That  same  morning  a  light  snow  fell,  mak- 
ing the  work  more  complete,  for  it  covered  up 
all  footprints  and  buried  the  telltale  scent  of 
man.  That  night  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf 
passed  within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  windfall, 
and  Gray  Wolf's  keen  scent  detected  some- 
thing strange  and  disquieting  in  the  air.  She 
informed  Kazan  by  pressing  her  shoulder 
against  his,  and  they  swung  off  at  right  angles, 
keeping  to  windward  of  the  trap-line. 

For  two  days  and  three  cold  starlit  nights 
nothing  happened  at  the  windfall.  Henri  un- 
derstood, and  explained  to  Weyman.  The 
lynx  was  a  hunter,  like  himself,  and  also  had 
its  hunt-line,  which  it  covered  about  once  a 
week.  On  the  fifth  night  the  lynx  returned, 
went  to  the  windfall,  was  lured  straight  to  the 
bait,  and  the  sharp-toothed  steel  trap  closed 
relentlessly  over  its  right  hindfoot.  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf  were  traveling  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  deeper  in  the  forest  when  they  heard  the 
clanking  of  the  steel  chain  as  the  lynx  fought 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       149 

to  free  itself.     Ten  minutes  later  they  stood 
in  the  door  of  the  windfall  cavern. 

It  was  a  white  clear  night,  so  filled  with  bril- 
liant stars  that  Henri  himself  could  have 
hunted  by  the  light  of  them.  The  lynx  had 
exhausted  itself,  and  lay  crouching  on  its 
belly  as  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  appeared. 
As  usual,  Gray  Wolf  held  back  while  Kazan 
began  the  battle.  In  the  first  or  second  of 
these  fights  on  the  trap-line,  Kazan  would 
probably  have  been  disemboweled  or  had  his 
jugular  vein  cut  open,  had  the  fierce  cats  been 
free.  They  were  more  than  his  match  in  open 
fight,  though  the  biggest  of  them  fell  ten 
pounds  under  his  weight.  Chance  had  saved 
him  on  the  Sun  Rock.  Gray  Wolf  and  the 
porcupine  had  both  added  to  the  defeat  of  the 
lynx  on  the  sand-bar.  And  along  Henri's 
hunting  line  it  was  the  trap  that  was  his  ally. 
Even  with  his  enemy  thus  shackled  he  took  big 
chances.  And  he  took  bigger  chances  than 
ever  with  the  lynx  under  the  windfall. 

The  cat  was  an  old  warrior,  six  or  seven 
years  old.  His  claws  were  an  inch  and  a 
quarter  long,  and  curved  like  simitars.  His 
forefeet  and  his  left  hindfoot  were  free,  and 


150  KAZAN 

as  Kazan  advanced,  he  drew  back,  so  that  the 
trap-chain  was  slack  under  his  body.  Here 
Kazan  could  not  follow  his  old  tactics  of  cir- 
cling about  his  trapped  foe,  until  it  had  become 
tangled  in  the  chain,  or  had  so  shortened  and 
twisted  it  that  there  was  no  chance  for  a  leap, 
He  had  to  attack  face  to  face,  and  suddenly 
he  lunged  in.  They  met  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
Kazan's  fangs  snapped  at  the  other's  throat, 
and  missed.  Before  he  could  strike  again,  the 
lynx  flung  out  its  free  hindfoot,  and  even 
Gray  Wolf  heard  the  ripping  sound  that  it 
made.  With  a  snarl  Kazan  was  flung  back, 
his  shoulder  torn  to  the  bone. 

Then  it  was  that  one  of  Henri's  hidden  traps 
saved  him  from  a  second  attack — and  death. 
Steel  jaws  snapped  over  one  of  his  forefeet, 
and  when  he  leaped,  the  chain  stopped  him. 
Once  or  twice  before,  blind  Gray  Wolf  had 
leaped  in,  when  she  knew  that  Kazan  was  in 
great  danger.  For  an  instant  she  forgot  her 
caution  now,  and  as  she  heard  Kazan's  snarl 
of  pain,  she  sprang  in  under  the  windfall. 
Five  traps  Henri  had  hidden  in  the  space  in 
front  of  the  bait-house,  and  Gray  Wolf's  feet 
found  two  of  these.  She  fell  on  her  side*  snap- 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       151 

ping  and  snarling.  In  his  struggles  Kazan 
sprung  the  remaining  two  traps.  One  of 
them  missed.  The  fifth,  and  last,  caught  him 
by  a  hindfoot. 

This  was  a  little  past  midnight.  From  then 
until  morning  the  earth  and  snow  under  the 
windfall  were  torn  up  by  the  struggles  of  the 
wolf,  the  dog  and  the  lynx  to  regain  their 
freedom.  And  when  morning  came,  all  three 
were  exhausted,  and  lay  on  their  sides,  panting 
and  with  bleeding  jaws,  waiting  for  the  coming 
of  man — and  death. 

Henri  and  Weyman  were  out  early.  When 
they  struck  off  the  main  line  toward  the  wind- 
fall, Henri  pointed  to  the  tracks  of  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf,  and  his  dark  face  lighted  up 
with  pleasure  and  excitement.  When  they 
reached  the  shelter  under  the  mass  of  fallen 
timber,  both  stood  speechless  for  a  moment, 
astounded  by  what  they  saw.  Even  Henri 
had  seen  nothing  like  this  before — two  wolves 
and  a  lynx,  all  in  traps,  and  almost  within 
reach  of  one  another's  fangs.  But  surprise 
could  not  long  delay  the  business  of  Henri's 
hunter's  instinct.  The  wolves  lay  first  in  his 
path,  and  he  was  raising  his  rifle  to  put  a 


152  KAZAN 

steel-capped  bullet  through  the  base  of  Ka- 
zan's brain,  when  Weyman  caught  him  eagerly 
by  the  arm.  Weyman  was  staring.  His 
fingers  dug  into  Henri's  flesh.  His  eyes  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  steel-studded  collar 
about  Kazan's  neck. 

"Wait!"  he  cried.  "It's  not  a  wolf.  It's 
a  dog!" 

Henri  lowered  his  rifle,  staring  at  the  collar. 
Weyman's  eyes  shot  to  Gray  Wolf.  She  was 
facing  them,  snarling,  her  white  fangs  bared  to 
the  foes  she  could  not  see.  Her  blind  eyes 
were  closed.  Where  there  should  have  been 
eyes  there  was  only  hair,  and  an  exclamation 
broke  from  Weyman's  lips. 

"Look!"  he  commanded  of  Henri.  "What 
in  the  name  of  heaven — " 

"One  is  dog — wild  dog  that  has  run  to  the 
wolves,"  said  Henri.  "And  the  other  is — 
wolf." 

"And  Hind!33  gasped  Weyman. 

"Ow,  blind,  m'sieur,"  added  Henri,  falling 
partly  into  French  in  his  amazement.  He 
was  raising  his  rifle  again.  Weyman  seized 
it  firmly. 

"Don't  kUl  them,  Henri,"  he  said.    "Give 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       153 

them  to  me — alive.  Figure  up  the  value  of 
the  lynx  they  have  destroyed,  and  add  to  that 
the  wolf  bounty,  and  I  will  pay.  Alive,  they 
are  worth  to  me  a  great  deal.  My  God,  a  dog 
— and  a  blind  wolf — mates!" 

He  still  held  Henri's  rifle,  and  Henri  was 
staring  at  him,  as  if  he  did  not  yet  quite  under- 
stand. 

Weyman  continued  speaking,  his  eyes  and 
face  blazing. 

"A  dog — and  a  blind  wolf — mates!"  he  re- 
peated. "It  is  wonderful,  Henri.  Down 
there,  they  will  say  I  have  gone  beyond  reason^ 
when  my  book  comes  out.  But  I  shall  have 
proof.  I  shall  take  twenty  photographs  here, 
before  you  kill  the  lynx.  I  shall  keep  the  dog 
and  the  wolf  alive.  And  I  shall  pay  you, 
Henri,  a  hundred  dollars  apiece  for  the  two 
May  I  have  them?" 

Henri  nodded.  He  held  his  rifle  in  readi- 
ness, while  Weyman  unpacked  his  camera  and 
got  to  work.  Snarling  fangs  greeted  the  click 
of  the  camera-shutter — the  fangs  of  wolf  and 
lynx.  But  Kazan  lay  cringing,  not  through 
fear,  but  because  he  still  recognized  the  mas- 
tery of  man.  And  when  he  had  finished  with 


154  KAZAN 

his  pictures,  Weyman  approached  almost 
within  reach  of  him,  and  spoke  even  more 
kindly  to  him  than  the  man  who  had  lived  back 
in  the  deserted  cabin. 

Henri  shot  the  lynx,  and  when  Kazan  un- 
derstood this,  he  tore  at  the  end  of  his  trap- 
chains  and  snarled  at  the  writhing  body  of 
his  forest  enemy.  By  means  of  a  pole  and  a 
babiche  noose,  Kazan  was  brought  out  from 
under  the  windfall  and  taken  to  Henri's  cabin. 
The  two  men  then  returned  with  a  thick  sack 
and  more  babiche,  and  blind  Gray  Wolf,  still 
fettered  by  the  traps,  was  made  prisoner. 
All  the  rest  of  that  day  Weyman  and  Henri 
worked  to  build  a  stout  cage  of  saplings,  and 
when  it  was  finished,  the  two  prisoners  were 
placed  in  it. 

Before  the  dog  was  put  in  with  Gray  Wolf, 
Weyman  closely  examined  the  worn  and  tooth- 
marked  collar  about  his  neck. 

On  the  brass  plate  he  found  engraved  the 
one  word,  "Kazan,"  and  with  a  strange  thrill 
made  note  of  it  in  his  diary. 

After  this  Weyman  often  remained  at  the 
cabin  when  Henri  went  out  on  the  trap-line. 
After  the  second  day  he  dared  to  put  his  hand 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       155 

between  the  sapling  bars  and  touch  Kazan, 
and  the  next  day  Kazan  accepted  a  piece  of 
raw  moose  meat  from  his  hand.  But  at  his 
approach,  Gray  Wolf  would  always  hide  un- 
der the  pile  of  balsam  in  the  corner  of  their 
prison.  The  instinct  of  generations  and  per- 
haps of  centuries  had  taught  her  that  man  was 
her  deadliest  enemy.  And  yet,  this  man  did 
not  hurt  her,  and  Kazan  was  not  afraid  of  him. 
She  was  frightened  at  first;  then  puzzled,  and 
a  growing  curiosity  followed  that.  Occasion- 
ally, after  the  third  day,  she  would  thrust  her 
blind  face  out  of  the  balsam  and  sniff  the  air 
when  Weyman  was  at  the  cage,  making 
friends  with  Kazan.  But  she  would  not  eat. 
Weyman  noted  that,  and  each  day  he  tempted 
her  with  the  choicest  morsels  of  deer  and  moose 
fat.  Five  days — six — seven  passed,  and  she 
had  not  taken  a  mouthful.  Weyman  could 
count  her  ribs. 

"She  die,"  Henri  told  him  on  the  seventh 
night.  "She  starve  before  she  eat  in  that 
cage.  She  want  the  forest,  the  wild  kill,  the 
fresh  blood.  She  two — free  year  old — too 
old  to  make  civilize." 

Henri  went  to  bed  at  the  usual  hour,  but 


156  KAZAN 

Weyman  was  troubled,  and  sat  up  late.  He 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  the  sweet-faced  girl  at 
North  Battleford,  and  then  he  turned  out  the 
light,  and  painted  visions  of  her  in  the  red 
glow  of  the  fire.  He  saw  her  again  for  that 
first  time  when  he  camped  in  the  little  shack 
where  the  fifth  city  of  Saskatchewan  now  stood 
— with  her  blue  eyes,  the  big  shining  braid, 
and  the  fresh  glow  of  the  prairies  in  her  cheeks. 
She  had  hated  him — yes,  actually  hated  him, 
because  he  loved  to  kill.  He  laughed  softly 
as  he  thought  of  that.  She  had  changed  him 
— wonderfully. 

He  rose,  opened  the  doot  softly,  and  went 
out.  Instinctively  his  eyes  turned  westward. 
The  sky  was  a  blaze  of  stars.  In  their  light 
he  could  see  the  cage,  and  he  stood,  watching 
and  listening.  A  sound  came  to  him.  It  was 
Gray  Wolf  gnawing  at  the  sapling  bars  of 
her  prison.  A  moment  later  there  came  a  low 
sobbing  whine,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  Kazan 
crying  for  his  freedom. 

Leaning  against  the  side  of  the  cabin  was 
an  ax.  Weyman  seized  it,  and  his  lips  smiled 
silently.  He  was  thrilled  by  a  strange  happi- 
ness, and  a  thousand  miles  away  in  that  city 


ALWAYS  TWO  BY  TWO       157 

on  the  Saskatchewan  he  could  feel  another 
spirit  rejoicing  with  him.  He  moved  toward 
the  cage.  A  dozen  blows,  and  two  o*  the  sap- 
ling bars  were  knocked  out.  Then  Weyman 
drew  back.  Gray  Wolf  found  the  opening 
first,  and  she  slipped  out  into  the  starlight  like 
a  shadow.  But  she  did  not  flee.  Out  in  the 
open  space  she  waited  for  Kazan,  and  for  a 
moment  the  two  stood  there,  looking  at  the 
cabin.  Then  they  set  off  into  freedom, 
Gray  Wolf's  shoulder  at  Kazan's  flank 

Weyman  breathed  deeply. 

"Two  by  two — always  two  by  two,  until 
death  finds  one  of  them,"  he  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  RED  DEATH 

KAZAN  and  Gray  Wolf  wandered  north- 
ward into  the  Fond  du  Lac  country,  and 
were  there  when  Jacques,  a  Hudson  Bay  Com- 
pany's runner,  came  up  to  the  post  from  the 
south  with  the  first  authentic  news  of  the  dread 
plague — the  smallpox.  For  weeks  there  had 
been  rumors  on  all  sides.  And  rumor  grew 
into  rumor.  From  the  east,  the  south  and  the 
west  they  multiplied,  until  on  all  sides  the 
Paul  Reveres  of  the  wilderness  were  carrying 
word  that  La  Mort  Rouge — the  Red  Death 
— was  at  their  heels,  and  the  chill  of  a  great 
fear  swept  like  a  shivering  wind  from  the  edge 
of  civilization  to  the  bay.  Nineteen  years  be- 
fore these  same  rumors  had  come  up  from  the 
south,  and  the  Red  Terror  had  followed.  The 
horror  of  it  still  remained  with  the  forest  peo- 
ple, for  a  thousand  unmarked  graves,  shunned 
like  a  pestilence,  and  scattered  from  the  lower 
waters  of  James  Bay  to  the  lake  country  of 

158 


THE  RED  DEATH  159 

the  Athabasca,  gave  evidence  of  the  toll  it  de- 
manded. 

Now  and  then  in  their  wanderings  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf  had  come  upon  the  little 
mounds  that  covered  the  dead.  Instinct — 
something  that  was  infinitely  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  man — made  them  feel  the  pres- 
ence of  death  about  them,  perhaps  smell  it  in  the 
air.  Gray  Wolf's  wild  blood  and  her  blind- 
ness gave  her  an  immense  advantage  over  Ka- 
zan when  it  came  to  detecting  those  mysteries 
of  the  air  and  the  earth  which  the  eyes  were 
not  made  to  see.  Each  day  that  had  followed 
that  terrible  moonlit  night  on  the  Sun  Rock, 
when  the  lynx  had  blinded  her,  had  added  to 
the  infallibility  of  her  two  chief  senses — hear- 
ing and  scent.  And  it  was  she  who  discovered 
the  presence  of  the  plague  first,  just  as  she  had 
scented  the  great  forest  fire  hours  before  Ka- 
zan had  found  it  in  the  air. 

Kazan  had  lured  her  back  to  a  trap- 
line.  The  trail  they  found  was  old.  It  had 
not  been  traveled  for  many  days.  In  a  trap 
they  found  a  rabbit,  but  it  had  been  dead  a 
long  time.  In  another  there  was  the  carcass 
of  a  fox,  torn  into  bits  by  the  owls.  Most  of 


160  KAZAN 

the  traps  were  sprung.  Others  were  covered 
with  snow.  Kazan,  with  his  three-quarters 
strain  of  dog,  ran  over  the  trail  from  trap  to 
trap,  intent  only  on  something  alive — meat  to 
devour.  Gray  Wolf,  in  her  blindness,  scented 
death.  It  shivered  in  the  tree-tops  above  her. 
She  found  it  in  every  trap-house  they  came  to 
— death — man  death.  It  grew  stronger  and 
stronger,  and  she  whined,  and  nipped  Kazan's 
flank.  And  Kazan  went  on.  Gray  Wolf 
followed  him  to  the  edge  of  the  clearing  in 
\*hich  Loti's  cabin  stood,  and  then  she  sat  back 
on  her  haunches,  raised  her  blind  face  to  the 
gray  sky,  and  gave  a  long  and  wailing  cry. 
In  that  moment  the  bristles  began  to  stand 
up  along  Kazan's  spine.  Once,  long  ago,  he 
had  howled  before  the  tepee  of  a  master  who 
was  newly  dead,  and  he  settled  back  on  his 
haunches,  and  gave  the  death-cry  with  Gray 
Wolf.  He,  too,  scented  it  now.  Death  was 
in  the  cabin,  and  over  the  cabin  there  stood  a 
sapling  pole,  and  at  the  end  of  the  pole  there 
fluttered  a  strip  of  red  cotton  rag — the  warn- 
ing flag  of  the  plague  from  Athabasca  to  the 
bay.  This  man,  like  a  hundred  other  heroes 
of  the  North,  had  run  up  the  warning  before  he 


THE  RED  DEATH  161 

laid  himself  down  to  die.  And  that  same 
night,  in  the  cold  light  of  the  moon,  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf  swung  northward  into  the  country 
of  the  Fond  du  Lac. 

There  preceded  them  a  messenger  from  the 
post  on  Reindeer  Lake,  who  was  passing  up 
the  warning  that  had  come  from  Nelson  House 
and  the  country  to  the  southeast. 

"There's  smallpox  on  the  Nelson,"  the  mes- 
senger informed  Williams,  at  Fond  du  Lac, 
"and  it  has  struck  the  Crees  on  Wollaston 
Lake.  God  only  knows  what  it  is  doing  to 
the  Bay  Indians,  but  we  hear  it  is  wiping  out 
the  Chippewas  between  the  Albany  and  the 
Churchill."  He  left  the  same  day  with  his 
winded  dogs.  "I'm  off  to  carry  word  to  the 
Reveillon  people  to  the  west,"  he  explained. 

Three  days  later,  word  came  from  Church- 
ill that  all  of  the  company's  servants  and  his 
majesty's  subjects  west  of  the  bay  should 
prepare  themselves  for  the  coming  of  the  Red 
Terror.  Williams'  thin  face  turned  as  white 
as  the  paper  he  held,  as  he  read  the  words 
of  the  Churchill  factor. 

"It  means  dig  graves,"  he  said.  "That's 
the  only  preparation  we  can  make." 


162  KAZAN 

He  read  the  paper  aloud  to  the  men  at  Fond 
du  Lac,  and  every  available  man  was  detailed 
to  spread  the  warning  throughout  the  post's 
territory.  There  was  a  quick  harnessing  of 
dogs,  and  on  each  sledge  that  went  out  was  a 
roll  of  red  cotton  cloth — rolls  that  were  omi- 
nous of  death,  lurid  signals  of  pestilence  and 
horror,  whose  touch  sent  shuddering  chills 
through  the  men  who  were  about  to  scatter 
them  among  the  forest  people.  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf  struck  the  trail  of  one  of  these 
sledges  on  the  Gray  Beaver,  and  followed  it 
for  half  a  mile.  The  next  day,  farther  to  the 
west,  they  struck  another,  and  on  the  fourth 
day  still  a  third.  The  last  trail  was  fresh,  and 
Gray  Wolf  drew  back  from  it  as  if  stung,  her 
fangs  snarling.  On  the  wind  there  came  to 
them  the  pungent  odor  of  smoke.  They  cut 
at  right  angles  to  the  trail,  Gray  Wolf  leap- 
ing clear  of  the  marks  in  the  snow,  and  climbed 
to  the  cap  of  a  ridge.  To  windward  of  them, 
and  down  in  the  plain,  a  cabin  was  burning* 
A  team  of  huskies  and  a  man  were  disappear- 
ing in  the  spruce  forest.  Deep  down  in  his 
throat  Kazan  gave  a  rumbling  whine.  Gray 
Wolf  stood  as  rigid  as  a  rock.  In  the  cabin  a 


THE  RED  DEATH  163 

plague-dead  man  was  burning.  It  was  the 
law  of  the  North.  And  the  mystery  of  the 
funeral  pyre  came  again  to  Kazan  and  Gray 
Wolf.  This  time  they  did  not  howl,  but  slunk 
down  into  the  farther  plain,  and  did  not  stop 
that  day  until  they  had  buried  themselves  deep 
in  a  dry  and  sheltered  swamp  ten  miles  to  the 
north. 

After  this  they  followed  the  days  and  weeks 
which  marked  the  winter  of  nineteen  hundred 
and  ten  as  one  of  the  most  terrible  in  all  the 
history  of  the  Northland — a  single  month  in 
which  wild  life  as  well  as  human  hung  in  the 
balance,  and  when  cold,  starvation  and  plague 
wrote  a  chapter  in  the  lives  of  the  forest  people 
which  will  not  be  forgotten  for  generations  to 
come. 

In  the  swamp  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  found 
a  home  under  a  windfall.  It  was  a  small  com- 
fortable nest,  shut  in  entirely  from  the  snow 
and  wind.  Gray  Wolf  took  possession  of  it 
immediately.  She  flattened  herself  out  on 
her  belly,  and  panted  to  show  Kazan  her  con- 
tentment and  satisfaction.  Nature  again 
kept  Kazan  close  at  her  side.  A  vision  came 
to  him,  unreal  and  dream-like,  of  that  wonder* 


164  KAZAN 

ful  night  under  the  stars — ages  and  ages  ago, 
it  seemed — when  he  had  fought  the  leader  of 
the  wolf -pack,  and  young  Gray  Wolf  had 
crept  to  his  side  after  his  victory  and  had  given 
herself  to  him  for  mate.  But  this  mating  sea- 
son there  was  no  running  after  the  doe  or  the 
caribou,  or  mingling  with  the  wild  pack.  They 
lived  chiefly  on  rabbit  and  spruce  partridge, 
because  of  Gray  Wolf's  blindness.  Kazan 
could  hunt  those  alone.  The  hair  had  now 
grown  over  Gray  Wolf's  sightless  eyes.  She 
had  ceased  to  grieve,  to  rub  her  eyes  with  her 
paws>  to  whine  for  the  sunlight,  the  golden 
moon  and  the  stars.  Slowly  she  began  to  for- 
get that  she  had  ever  seen  those  things.  She 
could  now  run  more  swiftly  at  Kazan's  flank. 
Scent  and  hearing  had  become  wonderfully 
keen.  She  could  wind  a  caribou  two  miles 
distant,  and  the  presence  of  man  she  could 
pick  up  at  an  even  greater  distance.  On  a 
still  night  she  had  heard  the  splash  of  a  trout 
half  a  mile  away.  And  as  these  two  things 
— scent  and  hearing — became  more  and  more 
developed  in  her,  those  same  senses  became 
less  active  in  Kazan. 

He   began   to   depend   upon   Gray   Wolf. 


THE  RED  DEATH  165 

She  would  point  out  the  hiding-place  of  a 
partridge  fifty  yards  from  their  trail.  In 
their  hunts  she  became  the  leader — until 
game  was  found.  And  as  Kazan  learned 
to  trust  to  her  in  the  hunt,  so  he  began 
just  as  instinctively  to  heed  her  warnings. 
If  Gray  Wolf  reasoned,  it  was  to  the  effect 
that  without  Kazan  she  would  die.  She 
had  tried  hard  now  and  then  to  catch  a  part- 
ridge, or  a  rabbit,  but  she  had  always  failed. 
Kazan  meant  life  to  her.  And — if  she  rea- 
soned— it  was  to  make  herself  indispensable 
to  her  mate.  Blindness  had  made  her  differ- 
ent than  she  would  otherwise  have  been. 
Again  nature  promised  motherhood  to  her. 
But  she  did  not — as  she  would  have  done  in 
the  open,  and  with  sight — hold  more  and  more 
aloof  from  Kazan  as  the  days  passed.  It  was 
her  habit,  spring,  summer  and  winter,  to 
snuggle  close  to  Kazan  and  lie  with  her  beauti- 
ful head  resting  on  his  neck  or  back.  If 
Kazan  snarled  at  her  she  did  not  snap  back, 
but  slunk  down  as  though  struck  a  blow. 
With  her  warm  tongue  she  would  lick  away 
the  ice  that  froze  to  the  long  hair  between 
Kazan's  toes.  For  days  after  he  had  run  a 


166  KAZAN 

sliver  in  his  paw  she  nursed  his  foot.  Blind- 
ness had  made  Kazan  absolutely  necessary  to 
her  existence — and  now,  in  a  different  way, 
she  became  more  and  more  necessary  to  Ka- 
zan. They  were  happy  in  their  swamp  home. 
There  was  plenty  of  small  game  about  them, 
and  it  was  warm  under  the  windfall.  Rarely 
did  they  go  beyond  the  limits  of  the  swamp 
to  hunt.  Out  on  the  more  distant  plains  and 
the  barren  ridges  they  occasionally  heard  the 
cry  of  the  wolf-pack  on  the  trail  of  meat,  but 
it  no  longer  thrilled  them  with  a  desire  to  join 
in  the  chase. 

One  day  they  struck  farther  than  usual  to 
the  west.  They  left  the  swamp,  crossed  a 
plain  over  which  a  fire  had  swept  the  preced- 
ing year,  climbed  a  ridge,  and  descended  into 
a  second  plain.  At  the  bottom  Gray  Wolf 
stopped  and  sniffed  the  air.  At  these  times 
Kazan  always  watched  her,  waiting  eagerly 
and  nervously  if  the  scent  was  too  faint  for 
him  to  catch.  But  to-day  he  caught  the  edge 
of  it,  and  he  knew  why  Gray  Wolf's  ears  flat- 
tened, and  her  hindquarters  drooped.  The 
scent  of  game  would  have  made  her  rigid  and 
alert.  But  it  was  not  the  game  smell.  It 


THE  RED  DEATH  167 

was  human,  and  Gray  Wolf  slunk  behind  Ka- 
zan and  whined.  For  several  minutes  they 
stood  without  moving  or  making  a  sound,  and 
then  Kazan  led  the  way  on.  Less  than  three 
hundred  yards  away  they  came  to  a  thick 
clump  of  scrub  spruce,  and  almost  ran  into 
a  snow-smothered  tepee.  It  was  abandoned. 
Life  and  fire  had  not  been  there  for  a  long 
time.  But  f?om  the  tepee  had  come  the  man- 
smell.  With  legs  rigid  and  his  spine  quiver- 
ing Kazan  approached  the  opening  to  the 
tepee.  He  looked  in.  In  the  middle  of  the 
tepee,  lying  on  the  charred  embers  of  a  fire, 
lay  a  ragged  blanket — and  in  the  blanket  was 
wrapped  the  body  of  a  little  Indian  child. 
Kazan  could  see  the  tiny  moccasined  feet. 
But  so  long  had  death  been  there  that  he  could 
scarcely  smell  the  presence  of  it.  He  drew 
back,  and  saw  Gray  Wolf  cautiously  nosing 
about  a  long  and  peculiarly  shaped  hummock 
in  the  snow.  She  had  traveled  about  it  three 
times,  but  never  approaching  nearer  than  a 
man  could  have  reached  with  a  rifle  barrel. 
At  the  end  of  her  third  circle  she  sat  down  on 
her  haunches,  and  Kazan  went  close  to  the 
hummock  and  sniffed.  Under  that  bulge  in 


168  KAZAN 

the  snow,  as  well  as  in  the  tepee,  there  was 
death.  They  slunk  away,  their  ears  flattened 
and  their  tails  drooping  until  they  trailed  the 
snow,  and  did  not  stop  until  they  reached 
their  swamp  home.  Even  there  Gray  Wolf 
still  sniffed  the  horror  of  the  plague,  and  her 
muscles  twitched  and  shivered  as  she  lay  close 
at  Kazan's  side. 

That  night  the  big  white  moon  had  around 
its  edge  a  crimson  rim.  It  meant  cold — in- 
tense cold.  Always  the  plague  came  in  the 
days  of  greatest  cold — the  lower  the  temper- 
ature the  more  terrible  its  havoc.  It  grew 
steadily  colder  that  night,  and  the  increased 
chill  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  the  windfall, 
and  drew  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  closer  to- 
gether. With  dawn,  which  came  at  about 
eight  o'clock,  Kazan  and  his  blind  mate 
sallied  forth  into  the  day.  It  was  fifty  de- 
grees below  zero.  About  them  the  trees 
cracked  with  reports  like  pistol-shots.  In  the 
thickest  spruce  the  partridges  were  humped 
into  round  balls  of  feathers.  The  snow-shoe 
rabbits  had  burrowed  deep  under  the  snow  OP 
to  the  heart  of  the  heaviest  windfalls.  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf  found  few  fresh  trails,  and 


THE  RED  DEATH  169 

after  an  hour  of  fruitless  hunting  they  re- 
turned to  their  lair.  Kazan,  dog-like,  had 
buried  the  half  of  a  rabbit  two  or  three  days 
before,  and  they  dug  this  out  of  the  snow 
and  ate  the  frozen  flesh. 

All  that  day  it  grew  colder — steadily  colder. 
The  night  that  followed  was  cloudless,  with  a 
white  moon  and  brilliant  stars.  The  tempera- 
ture had  fallen  another  ten  degrees,  and 
nothing  was  moving.  Traps  were  never 
sprung  on  such  nights,  for  even  the  furred 
things — the  mink,  and  the  ermine,  and  the 
lynx — lay  snug  in  the  holes  and  the  nests 
they  had  found  for  themselves.  An  in- 
creasing hunger  was  not  strong  enough  to 
drive  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  from  their 
windfall.  The  next  day  there  was  no  break 
in  the  terrible  cold,  and  toward  noon  Kazan 
set  out  on  a  hunt  for  meat,  leaving  Gray 
Wolf  in  the  windfall.  Being  three-quarters 
dog,  food  was  more  necessary  to  Kazan  than 
to  his  mate.  Nature  has  fitted  the  wolf -breed 
for  famine,  and  in  ordinary  temperature  Gray 
Wolf  could  have  lived  for  a  fortnight  with- 
out food.  At  sixty  degrees  below  zero  she 
could  exist  a  week,  perhaps  ten  days.  Only 


170  KAZAN 

thirty  hours  had  passed  since  they  had  de« 
voured  the  last  of  the  frozen  rabbit,  and  she 
was  quite  satisfied  to  remain  in  their  snug 
retreat. 

But  Kazan  was  hungry.  He  began  to 
hunt  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  traveling  toward 
the  burned  plain.  He  nosed  about  every 
windfall  that  he  came  to,  and  investigated 
the  thickets.  A  thin  shot-like  snow  had 
fallen,  and  in  this — from  the  windfall  to  the 
burn — he  found  but  a  single  trail,  and  that 
was  the  trail  of  an  ermine.  Under  a  windfall 
he  caught  the  warm  scent  of  a  rabbit,  but  the 
rabbit  was  as  safe  from  him  there  as  were  the 
partridges  in  the  trees,  and  after  an  hour  of 
futile  digging  and  gnawing  he  gave  up  his  ef- 
fort to  reach  it.  For  three  hours  he  had 
hunted  when  he  returned  to  Gray  Wolf.  He 
was  exhausted.  While  Gray  Wolf,  with  the 
instinct  of  the  wild,  had  saved  her  own  strength 
and  energy,  Kazan  had  been  burning  up  his 
reserve  forces,  and  was  hungrier  than  ever. 

The  moon  rose  clear  and  brilliant  in  the  sky 
again  that  night,  and  Kazan  set  out  once  more 
on  the  hunt.  He  urged  Gray  Wolf  to  accom- 
pany him,  whining  for  her  outside  the  windfall 


THE  RED  DEATH  171 

— returning  for  her  twice — but  Gray  Wolf 
laid  her  ears  aslant  and  refused  to  move.  The 
temperature  had  now  fallen  to  sixty-five  or 
seventy  degrees  below  zero,  and  with  it  there 
came  from  the  north  an  increasing  wind,  mak- 
ing the  night  one  in  which  human  life  could 
not  have  existed  for  an  hour.  By  midnight 
Kazan  was  back  under  the  windfall.  The 
wind  grew  stronger.  It  began  to  wail  in 
mournful  dirges  over  the  swamp,  and  then  it 
burst  in  fierce  shrieking  volleys,  with  intervals 
of  quiet  between.  These  were  the  first  warn- 
ings from  the  great  barrens  that  lay  between 
the  last  lines  of  timber  and  the  Arctic.  With 
morning  the  storm  burst  in  all  its  fury  from 
out  of  the  north,  and  Gray  Wolf  and  Kazan 
lay  close  together  and  shivered  as  they  listened 
to  the  roar  of  it  over  the  windfall.  Once  Ka- 
zan thrust  his  head  and  shoulders  out  from 
the  shelter  of  the  fallen  trees,  but  the  storm 
drove  him  back.  Everything  that  possessed 
life  had  sought  shelter,  according  to  its  way 
and  instinct.  The  furred  creatures  like  the 
mink  and  the  ermine  were  safest,  for  during 
the  warmer  hunting  days  they  were  of  the  kind 
that  cached  meat.  The  wolves  and  the  foxes 


172  KAZAN 

had  sought  out  the  windfalls  and  the  rocks. 
Winged  things,  with  the  exception  of  the  owls, 
who  were  a  tenth  part  body  and  nine-tenths 
feathers,  burrowed  under  snow-drifts  or  found 
shelter  in  thick  spruce.  To  the  hoofed  and 
horned  animals  the  storm  meant  greatest 
havoc.  The  deer,  the  caribou  and  the  moose 
could  not  crawl  under  windfalls  or  creep  be- 
tween rocks.  The  best  they  could  do  was  to 
lie  down  in  the  lee  of  a  drift,  and  allow  them- 
selves to  be  covered  deep  with  the  protecting 
snow.  Even  then  they  could  not  keep  their 
shelter  long,  for  they  had  to  eat.  For  eigh- 
teen hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  the  moose 
had  to  feed  to  keep  himself  alive  during  the 
winter.  His  big  stomach  demanded  quantity, 
and  it  took  him  most  of  his  time  to  nibble  from 
the  tops  of  bushes  the  two  or  three  bushels  he 
needed  a  day.  The  caribou  required  almost 
as  much — the  deer  least  of  the  three. 

And  the  storm  kept  up  that  day,  and  the 
next,  and  still  a  third — three  days  and  three 
nights — and  the  third  day  and  night  there 
came  with  it  a  stinging,  shot-like  snow  that 
fell  two  feet  deep  on  the  level,  and  in  drifts  of 
eight  and  ten.  It  was  the  "heavy  snow"  of 


THE  RED  DEATH  173 

the  Indians — the  snow  that  lay  like  lead  on  the 
earth,  and  under  which  partridges  and  rab- 
bits were  smothered  in  thousands. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  the  beginning  of 
the  storm  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  issued  forth 
from  the  windfall.  There  was  no  longer  a 
wind — no  more  falling  snow.  The  whole 
world  lay  under  a  blanket  of  unbroken  white, 
and  it  was  intensely  cold. 

The  plague  had  worked  its  havoc  with  men. 
Now  had  come  the  days  of  famine  and  death 
for  the  wild  things. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER 

KAZAN  and  Gray  Wolf  had  been  a  hun- 
dred and  forty  hours  without  food.  To 
Gray  Wolf  this  meant  acute  discomfort,  a 
growing  weakness.  To  Kazan  it  was  starva- 
tion. Six  days  and  six  nights  of  fasting  had 
drawn  in  their  ribs  and  put  deep  hollows  in 
front  of  their  hindquarters.  Kazan's  eyes 
were  red,  and  they  narrowed  to  slits  as  he 
looked  forth  into  the  day.  Gray  Wolf  fol- 
lowed him  this  time  when  he  went  out  on 
the  hard  snow.  Eagerly  and  hopefully  they 
began  the  hunt  in  the  bitter  cold.  They  swung 
around  the  edge  of  the  windfall,  where  there 
had  always  been  rabbits.  There  were  no 
tracks  now,  and  no  scent.  They  continued  in 
a  horseshoe  circle  through  the  swamp,  and  the 
only  scent  they  caught  was  that  of  a  snow-owl 
perched  up  in  a  spruce.  They  came  to  the 

burn  and  turned  back,  hunting  the  opposite 

m 


THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER     175 

side  of  the  swamp.  On  this  side  there  was  a 
ridge.  They  climbed  the  ridge,  and  from  the 
cap  of  it  looked  out  over  a  world  that  was  bar- 
ren of  life.  Ceaselessly  Gray  Wolf  sniffed 
the  air,  but  she  gave  no  signal  to  Kazan.  On 
the  top  of  the  ridge  Kazan  stood  panting. 
His  endurance  was  gone.  On  their  return 
through  the  swamp  he  stumbled  over  an  ob- 
stacle which  he  tried  to  clear  with  a  jump. 
Hungrier  and  weaker,  they  returned  to  the 
windfall.  The  night  that  followed  was  clear, 
and  brilliant  with  stars.  They  hunted  the 
swamp  again.  Nothing  was  moving — save 
one  other  creature,  and  that  was  a  fox.  In- 
stinct told  them  that  it  was  futile  to  follow 
him. 

It  was  then  that  the  old  thought  of  the 
cabin  returned  to  Kazan.  Two  things  the 
cabin  had  always  meant  to  him — warmth  and 
food.  And  far  beyond  the  ridge  was  the 
cabin,  where  he  and  Gray  Wolf  had  howled 
at  the  scent  of  death.  He  did  not  think 
of  man — or  of  that  mystery  which  he  had 
howled  at.  He  thought  only  of  the  cabin, 
and  the  cabin  had  always  meant  food.  He 
set  off  in  a  straight  line  for  the  ridge,  and 


176  KAZAN 

Gray  Wolf  followed.  They  crossed  the 
ridge  and  the  burn  beyond,  and  entered  the 
edge  of  a  second  swamp.  Kazan  was  hunting 
listlessly  now.  His  head  hung  low.  His 
bushy  tail  dragged  in  the  snow.  He  was  in- 
tent on  the  cabin — only  the  cabin.  It  was  his 
last  hope.  But  Gray  Wolf  was  still  alert, 
taking  in  the  wind,  and  lifting  her  head 
whenever  Kazan  stopped  to  snuffle  his  chilled 
nose  in  the  snow.  At  last  it  came — the 
scent!  Kazan  had  moved  on,  but  he  stopped 
when  he  found  that  Gray  Wolf  was  not 
following.  All  the  strength  that  was  in  his 
starved  body  revealed  itself  in  a  sudden 
rigid  tenseness  as  he  looked  at  his  mate.  Her 
forefeet  were  planted  firmly  to  the  east;  her 
slim  gray  head  was  reaching  out  for  the  scent ; 
her  body  trembled. 

Then — suddenly — they  heard  a  sound,  and 
with  a  whining  cry  Kazan  set  out  in  its  direc- 
tion, with  Gray  Wolf  at  his  flank.  The  scent 
grew  stronger  and  stronger  in  Gray  Wolf's 
nostrils,  and  soon  it  came  to  Kazan.  It  was 
not  the  scent  of  a  rabbit  or  a  partridge.  It 
was  big  game.  They  approached  cautiously, 
keeping  full  in  the  wind.  The  swamp  grew 


THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER    177 

thicker,  the  spruce  more  dense,  and  now — 
from  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of  them — there 
came  a  crashing  of  locked  and  battling  horns. 
Ten  seconds  more  they  climbed  over  a  snow- 
drift, and  Kazan  stopped  and  dropped  flat  on 
his  belly.  Gray  Wolf  crouched  close  at  his 
side,  her  blind  eyes  turned  to  what  she  could 
smell  but  could  not  see. 

Fifty  yards  from  them  a  number  of  moose 
had  gathered  for  shelter  in  the  thick  spruce. 
They  had  eaten  clear  a  space  an  acre  in  ex- 
tent. The  trees  were  cropped  bare  as  high  as 
they  could  reach,  and  the  snow  was  beaten  hard 
under  their  feet.  There  were  six  animals  in 
the  acre,  two  of  them  bulls — and  these  bulls 
were  fighting,  while  three  cows  and  a  yearling 
were  huddled  in  a  group  watching  the  mighty 
duel.  Just  before  the  storm  a  young  bull, 
sleek,  three-quarters  grown,  and  with  the  small 
compact  antlers  of  a  four-year-old,  had  led 
the  three  cows  and  the  yearling  to  this  sheltered 
spot  among  the  spruce.  Until  last  night  he 
had  been  master  of  the  herd.  During  the 
night  the  older  bull  had  invaded  his  dominion. 
The  invader  was  four  times  as  old  as  the  young 
bull.  He  was  half  again  as  heavy.  His  huge 


178  KAZAN 

palmate  horns,  knotted  and  irregular — but 
massive — spoke  of  age.  A  warrior  of  a  hun- 
dred fights,  he  had  not  hesitated  to  give  battle 
in  his  effort  to  rob  the  younger  bull  of  his 
home  and  family.  Three  times  they  had 
fought  since  dawn,  and  the  hard-trodden  snow 
was  red  with  blood.  The  smell  of  it  came  to 
Kazan's  and  Gray  Wolf's  nostrils.  Kazan 
sniffed  hungrily.  Queer  sounds  rolled  up 
and  down  in  Gray  Wolf's  throat,  and  she 
licked  her  jaws. 

For  a  moment  the  two  fighters  drew  a  few 
yards  apart,  and  stood  with  lowered  heads. 
The  old  bull  had  not  yet  won  victory.  The 
younger  bull  represented  youth  and  endur- 
ance ;  in  the  older  bull  those  things  were  pitted 
against  craft,  greater  weight,  maturer  strength 
— and  a  head  and  horns  that  were  like  a  bat- 
tering ram.  But  in  that  great  hulk  of  the 
older  bull  there  was  one  other  thing — age. 
His  huge  sides  were  panting.  His  nostrils 
were  as  wide  as  bells  Then,  as  if  some  invisi- 
ble spirit  of  the  arena  had  given  the  signal,  the 
animals  came  together  again.  The  crash  of 
their  horns  could  have  been  heard  half  a  mile 
away,  and  under  twelve  hundred  pounds  of 


THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER     179 

flesh  and  bone  the  younger  bull  went  plunging 
back  upon  his  haunches.  Then  was  when 
youth  displayed  itself.  In  an  instant  he  was 
up,  and  locking  horns  with  his  adversary. 
Twenty  times  he  had  done  this,  and  each  at- 
tack had  seemed  filled  with  increasing  strength. 
And  now,  as  if  realizing  that  the  last  moments 
of  the  last  fight  had  come,  he  twisted  the  old 
bull's  neck  and  fought  as  he  had  never  fought 
before.  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  both  heard 
the  sharp  crack  that  followed — as  if  a  dry  stick 
had  been  stepped  upon  and  broken.  It  was 
February,  and  the  hoofed  animals  were  al- 
ready beginning  to  shed  their  horns — espe- 
cially the  older  bulls,  whose  palmate  growths 
drop  first.  This  fact  gave  victory  to  the 
younger  bull  in  the  blood-stained  arena  a  few 
yards  from  Gray  Wolf  and  Kazan.  From  its 
socket  in  the  old  bull's  skull  one  of  his  huge 
antlers  broke  with  that  sharp  snapping  sound, 
and  in  another  moment  four  inches  of  stiletto- 
like  horn  buried  itself  back  of  his  foreleg.  In 
an  instant  all  hope  and  courage  left  him,  and 
he  swung  backward  yard  by  yard,  with  the 
younger  bull  prodding  his  neck  and  shoulders 
until  blood  dripped  from  him  in  little  streams. 


180  KAZAN 

At  the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  flung  himself 
free  and  crashed  off  into  the  forest. 

.The  younger  bull  did  not  pursue.  He 
tossed  his  head,  and  stood  for  a  few  moments 
with  heaving  sides  and  dilated  nostrils,  facing 
in  the  direction  his  vanquished  foe  had  taken. 
Then  he  turned,  and  trotted  back  to  the  still 
motionless  cows  and  yearling. 

Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  were  quivering. 
Gray  Wolf  slunk  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
clearing,  and  Kazan  followed.  No  longer 
were  they  interested  in  the  cows  and  the  young 
bull.  From  that  clearing  they  had  seen  meat 
driven  forth — meat  that  was  beaten  in  fight, 
and  bleeding.  Every  instinct  of  the  wild  pack 
returned  to  Gray  Wolf  now — and  in  Kazan  the 
mad  desire  to  taste  the  blood  be  smelled. 
Swiftly  they  turned  toward  the  blood-stained 
trail  of  the  old  bull,  and  when  they  came  to  it 
they  found  it  spattered  red.  Kazan's  jaws 
dripped  as  the  hot  scent  drove  the  blood  like 
veins  of  fire  through  his  weakened  body.  His 
eyes  were  reddened  by  starvation,  and  in  them 
there  was  a  light  now  that  they  had  never 
known  even  in  the  days  of  the  wolf -pack. 

He  set  off  swiftly,  almost  forgetful  of  Gray 


THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER     181 

Wolf.  But  his  mate  no  longer  required  his 
flank  for  guidance.  With  her  nose  close  to 
the  trail  she  ran — ran  as  she  had  run  in  the 
long  and  thrilling  hunts  before  blindness  came. 
Half  a  mile  from  the  spruce  thicket  they  came 
upon  the  old  bull.  He  had  sought  shelter  be- 
hind a  clump  of  balsam,  and  he  stood  over  a 
growing  pool  of  blood  in  the  snow.  He  was 
still  breathing  hard.  His  massive  head,  gro- 
tesque now  with  its  one  antler,  was  drooping. 
Flecks  of  blood  dropped  from  his  distended 
nostrils.  Even  then,  with  the  old  bull  weak- 
ened by  starvation,  exhaustion  and  loss  of 
blood,  a  wolf-pack  would  have  hung  back  be- 
fore attacking.  Where  they  would  have  hesi- 
tated, Kazan  leaped  in  with  a  snarling  cry. 
For  an  instant  his  fangs  sunk  into  the  thick 
hide  of  the  bull's  throat.  Then  he  was  flung 
back — twenty  feet.  Hunger  gnawing  at  his 
vitals  robbed  him  of  all  caution,  and  he  sprang 
to  the  attack  again — full  at  the  bull's  front — 
while  Gray  Wolf  crept  up  unseen  behind, 
seeking  in  her  blindness  the  vulnerable  part 
which  nature  had  not  taught  Kazan  to  find. 
This  time  Kazan  was  caught  fairly  on  the 
broad  palmate  leaf  of  the  bull's  antler,  and 


182  KAZAN 

he  was  flung  back  again,  half  stunned.  In 
that  same  moment  Gray  Wolf's  long  white 
teeth  cut  like  knives  through  one  of  the  bull's 
rope-like  hamstrings.  For  thirty  seconds  she 
kept  the  hold,  while  the  bull  plunged  wildly 
in  his  efforts  to  trample  her  underfoot.  Ka- 
zan was  quick  to  learn,  still  quicker  to  be 
guided  by  Gray  Wolf,  and  he  leaped  in  again, 
snapping  for  a  hold  on  the  bulging  cord  just 
above  the  knee.  He  missed,  and  as  he  lunged 
forward  on  his  shoulders  Gray  Wolf  was  flung 
off.  OBut  she  had  accomplished  her  purpose. 
Beaten  in  open  battle  with  one  of  his  kind,  and 
now  attacked  by  a  still  deadlier  foe,  the  old 
bull  began  to  retreat.  As  he  went,  one  hip 
sank  under  him  at  every  step.  The  tendon 
of  his  left  leg  was  bitten  half  through. 

Without  being  able  to  see,  Gray  Wolf 
seemed  to  realize  what  had  happened.  Again 
she  was  the  pack-wolf — with  all  the  old  wolf 
strategy.  Twice  flung  back  by  the  old  bull's 
horn,  Kazan  knew  better  than  to  attack  openly 
again.  Gray  Wolf  trotted  after  the  bull,  but 
he  remained  behind  for  a  moment  to  lick  up 
hungrily  mouthfuls  of  the  blood-soaked  snow. 
Then  he  followed,  and  ran  close  against  Gray 


THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER     183 

Wolf's  side,  fifty  yards  behind  the  bulL 
There  was  more  blood  in  the  trail  now — a  thin 
red  ribbon  of  it.  Fifteen  minutes  later  the 
bull  stopped  again,  and  faced  about,  his  great 
head  lowered.  His  eyes  were  red.  There 
was  a  droop  to  his  neck  and  shoulders  that 
j  spoke  no  longer  of  the  unconquerable  fight- 
ing spirit  that  had  been  a  part  of  him  for 
nearly  a  score  of  years.  No  longer  was  he 
lord  of  the  wilderness  about  him ;  no  longer  was 
there  defiance  in  the  poise  of  his  splendid  head, 
or  the  flash  of  eager  fire  in  his  bloodshot  eyes. 
His  breath  came  with  a  gasping  sound  that 
was  growing  more  and  more  distinct.  A 
hunter  would  have  known  what  it  meant.  The 
stiletto-point  of  the  younger  bull's  antler  had 
gone  home,  and  the  old  bull's  lungs  were  fail- 
ing him.  More  than  once  Gray  Wolf  had 
heard  that  sound  in  the  early  days  of  her  hunt- 
ing with  the  pack,  and  she  understood.  Slowly 
she  began  to  circle  about  the  wounded  monarch 
at  a  distance  of  about  twenty  yards.  Kazan 
kept  at  her  side- 
Once — twice- -twenty  times  they  made  that 
slow  circle,  and  with  each  turn  they  made  the 
old  bull  turned,  and  his  breath  grew  heavier 


184  KAZAN 

and  his  head  drooped  lower.  Noon  came,  ancf 
was  followed  by  the  more  intense  cold  of  the 
last  half  of  the  day.  Twenty  circles  became 
a  hundred — two  hundred — and  more.  Under 
Gray  Wolf's  and  Kazan's  feet  the  snow  grew 
hard  in  the  path  they  made.  Under  the  old 
bull's  widespread  hoofs  the  snow  was  no  longer 
white — but  red.  A  thousand  times  before  this 
unseen  tragedy  of  the  wilderness  had  been  en- 
acted. It  was  an  epoch  of  that  life  where  life 
itself  means  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  where  to 
live  means  to  kill,  and  to  die  means  to  perpetu- 
ate life.  At  last,  in  that  steady  and  deadly 
circling  of  Gray  Wolf  and  Kazan,  there  came 
a  time  when  the  old  bull  did  not  turn — then  a 
second,  a  third  and  a  fourth  time,  and  Gray 
Wolf  seemed  to  know.  With  Kazan  she  drew 
back  from  the  hard- beaten  trail,  and  they  flat- 
tened themselves  on  their  bellies  under  a  dwarf 
spruce — and  waited.  For  many  minutes  the 
bull  stood  motionless,  his  hamstrung  quarter 
sinking  lower  and  lower.  And  then  with  a 
deep  blood-choked  gasp  he  sanjs  down. 

For  a  long  time  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  did 
not  move,  and  when  at  last  they  returned  to  the 
beaten  trail  the  bull's  heavy  head  was  resting 


THE  TRAIL  OF  HUNGER     185 

on  the  snow.  Again  they  began  to  circle,  and 
now  the  circle  narrowed  foot  by  foot,  until 
only  ten  yards — then  nine — then  eight — sep- 
arated them  from  their  prey.  The  bull  at- 
tempted to  rise,  and  failed.  Gray  Wolf  heard 
the  effort.  She  heard  him  sink  back  and  sud- 
denly she  leaped  in  swiftly  and  silently  from 
behind.  Her  sharp  fangs  buried  themselves 
in  the  bull's  nostrils,  and  with  the  first  instinct 
of  the  husky,  Kazan  sprang  for  a  throat  hold. 
This  time  he  was  not  flung  off.  It  was  Gray 
Wolf's  terrible  hold  that  gave  him  time  to 
tear  through  the  half -inch  hide,  and  to  bury 
his  teeth  deeper  and  deeper,  until  at  last  they 
reached  the  jugular.  A  gush  of  warm  blood 
spurted  into  his  face-  Bufe  he  did  not  let  go. 
Just  as  he  had  held  to  the  jugular  of  his  first 
buck  on  that  moonlight  night  a  long  time  ago, 
so  he  held  to  the  old  bull  now.  It  was  Gray 
Wolf  who  undamped  his  jaws.  She  drew 
back,  sniffing  the  air,  listening.  Then,  slowly, 
she  raised  her  head,  and  through  the  frozen 
and  starving  wilderness  there  went  her  wail- 
ing triumphant  cry — the  call  to  meat. 
For  them  the  days  of  famine  had  passed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  EIGHT  OF  FANG 

AFTER  the  fight  Kazan  lay  down  ex- 
hausted in  the  hlood-stained  snow,  while 
faithful  Gray  Wolf,  still  filled  with  the  en- 
durance of  her  wild  wolf  breed,  tore  fiercely 
at  the  thick  skin  on  the  bull's  neck  to  lay  open 
the  red  flesh.  When  she  had  done  this  she 
did  not  eat,  but  ran  to  Kazan's  side  and 
whined  softly  as  she  muzzled  him  with  her 
nose.  After  that  they  feasted,  crouching  side 
by  side  at  the  bull's  neck  and  tearing  at  the 
warm  sweet  flesh. 

The  last  pale  light  of  the  northern  day  was 
fading  swiftly  into  night  when  they  drew  back, 
gorged  until  there  were  no  longer  hollows  in 
their  sides.  The  faint  wind  died  away.  The 
clouds  that  had  hung  in  the  sky  during  the  day 
drifted  eastward,  and  the  moon  shone  brilliant 
and  clear.  For  an  hour  the  night  continued  to 
grow  lighter.  To  the  brilliance  of  the  moon 
and  the  stars  there  was  added  now  the  pale  fires 

186 


THE  RIGHT  OF  FANG         187 

of  the  aurora  borealis,  shivering  and  flashing 
over  the  Pole. 

Its  hissing  crackling  monotone,  like  the 
creaking  of  steel  sledge-runners  on  frost-filled 
snow,  came  faintly  to  the  ears  of  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf. 

As  yet  they  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  dead  bull,  and  at  the  first  sound  of 
that  strange  mystery  in  the  northern  skies  they 
stopped  and  listened  to  it,  alert  and  suspi- 
cious. Then  they  laid  their  ears  aslant  and 
trotted  slowly  back  to  the  meat  they  had  killed. 
Instinct  told  them  that  it  was  theirs  only  by 
right  of  fang.  They  had  fought  to  kill  it. 
And  it  was  in  the  law  of  the  wild  that  they 
would  have  to  fight  to  keep  it.  In  good  hunt- 
ing days  they  would  have  gone  on  and  wan- 
dered under  the  moon  and  the  stars.  But  long 
days  and  nights  of  starvation  had  taught  them 
something  different  now. 

On  that  clear  and  stormless  night  following 
the  days  of  plague  and  famine,  a  hundred 
thousand  hungry  creatures  came  out  from 
their  retreats  to  hunt  for  food.  For  eighteen 
hundred  miles  east  and  west  and  a  thousand 
miles  north  and  south,  slim  gaunt-bellied 


188  KAZAN 

creatures  hunted  under  the  moon  and  the  stars. 
Something  told  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  that 
this  hunt  was  on,  and  never  for  an  instant  did 
they  cease  their  vigilance.  At  last  they  lay 
down  at  the  edge  of  the  spruce  thicket,  and 
waited.  Gray  Wolf  muzzled  Kazan  gently 
with  her  blind  face.  The  uneasy  whine  in  her 
throat  was  a  warning  to  him.  Then  she 
sniffed  the  air,  and  listened — sniffed  and  lis- 
tened. 

Suddenly  every  muscle  in  their  bodies  grew 
rigid.  Something  living  had  passed  near 
them,  something  that  they  could  not  see  or 
hear,  and  scarcely  scent.  It  came  again,  as 
mysterious  as  a  shadow,  and  then  out  of  the 
air  there  floated  down  as  silently  as  a  huge 
snowflake  a  great  white  owl.  Kazan  saw  the 
hungry  winged  creature  settle  on  the  bull's 
shoulder.  Like  a  flash  he  was  out  from  his 
cover,  Gray  Wolf  a  yard  behind  him.  With 
an  angry  snarl  he  lunged  at  the  white  robber, 
and  his  jaws  snapped  on  empty  air.  His  leap 
carried  him  clean  over  the  bull.  He  turned, 
but  the  owl  was  gone. 

Nearly  all  of  his  old  strength  had  returned 
to  him  now.  He  trotted  about  the  bull,  the 


THE  RIGHT  OF  FANG         18S 

hair  along  his  spine  bristling  like  a  brush,  hi» 
eyes  wide  and  menacing.  He  snarled  at  the 
still  air.  His  jaws  clicked,  and  he  sat  back 
on  his  haunches  and  faced  the  blood-stained 
trail  that  the  moose  had  left  before  he  died. 
Again  that  instinct  as  infallible  as  reason  told 
him  that  danger  would  come  from  there. 

Like  a  red  ribbon  the  trail  ran  back  through 
the  wilderness.  The  little  swift-moving  er- 
mine were  everywhere  this  night,  looking  like 
white  rats  as  they  dodged  about  in  the  moon- 
light. They  were  first  to  find  the  trail,  and 
with  all  the  ferocity  of  their  blood-eating  na- 
ture followed  it  with  quick  exciting  leaps.  A 
fox  caught  the  scent  of  it  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
to  windward,  and  came  nearer.  From  out  of 
a  deep  windfall  a  beady-eyed,  thin-bellied 
fisher-cat  came  forth,  and  stopped  with  his 
feet  in  the  crimson  ribbon. 

It  was  the  fisher-cat  that  brought  Kazan  out 
from  under  his  cover  of  spruce  again.  In  the 
moonlight  there  was  a  sharp  quick  fight,  a 
snarling  and  scratching,  a  cat-like  yowl  of 
pain,  and  the  fisher  forgot  his  hunger  in  flight. 
Kazan  returned  to  Gray  Wolf  with  a  lacerated 
and  bleeding  nose.  Gray  Wolf  licked  it  sym- 


190  KAZAN 

pathetically,  while  Kazan  stood  rigid  and 
listening. 

The  fox  swung  swiftly  away  with  the  wind, 
warned  by  the  sounds  of  conflict.  He  was  not 
a  fighter,  but  a  murderer  who  killed  from  be- 
hind, and  a  little  later  he  leaped  upon  an  owl 
and  tore  it  into  bits  for  the  half-pound  of 
flesh  within  the  mass  of  feathers. 

But  nothing  could  drive  back  those  little 
white  outlaws  of  the  wilderness — the  ermine. 
They  would  have  stolen  between  the  feet  of 
man  to  get  at  the  warm  flesh  and  blood  of  the 
freshly  killed  bull.  Kazan  hunted  them  sav- 
agely. They  were  too  quick  for  him,  more 
like  elusive  flashes  in  the  moonlight  than  things 
of  life.  They  burrowed  under  the  old  bull's 
body  and  fed  while  he  raved  and  filled  his 
mouth  with  snow.  Gray  Wolf  sat  placidly 
on  her  haunches.  The  little  ermine  did  not 
trouble  her,  and  after  a  time  Kazan  realized 
this,  and  flung  himself  down  beside  her,  pant- 
ing and  exhausted. 

For  a  long  time  after  that  the  night  was  al- 
most unbroken  by  sound.  Once  in  the  far  dis- 
tance there  came  the  cry  of  a  wolf,  and  now 
and  then,  to  punctuate  the  deathly  silence,  the 


THE  RIGHT  OF  FANG         191 

Snow  owl  hooted  in  blood-curdling  protest  from 
his  home  in  the  spruce-tops.  The  moon  was 
straight  above  the  old  bull  when  Gray  Wolf 
scented  the  first  real  danger.  Instantly  she 
gave  the  warning  to  Kazan  and  faced  the 
bloody  trail,  her  lithe  body  quivering,  her 
fangs  gleaming  in  the  starlight,  a  snarling 
whine  in  her  throat.  Only  in  the  face  of  their 
deadliest  enemy,  the  lynx — the  terrible  fighter 
who  had  blinded  her  long  ago  in  that  battle 
on  the  Sun  Rock-— did  she  give  such  warning 
as  this  to  Kazan.  He  sprang  ahead  of  her, 
ready  for  battle  even  before  he  caught  the 
scent  of  the  gray  beautiful  creature  of  death 
stealing  over  the  trail. 

Then  came  the  interruption.  From  a  mile 
away  there  burst  forth  a  single  fierce  long- 
drawn  howl. 

After  all,  that  was  the  cry  of  the  true  master 
of  the  wilderness — the  wolf.  It  was  the  cry 
of  hunger.  It  was  the  cry  that  sent  men's 
blood  running  more  swiftly  through  their 
veins,  that  brought  the  moose  and  the  deer  to 
their  feet  shivering  in  every  limb — the  cry  that 
wailed  like  a  note  of  death  through  swamp 
and  forest  and  over  the  snow-smothered  ridges 


192  KAZAN 

until  its  faintest  echoes  reached  for  miles  into 
the  starlit  night. 

There  was  silence,  and  in  that  awesome 
stillness  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  stood  shoulder 
to  shoulder  facing  the  cry,  and  in  response  tc 
that  cry  there  worked  within  them  a  strange 
and  mystic  change,  for  what  they  had  heard 
was  not  a  warning  or  a  menace  but  the  call  of 
Brotherhood.  Away  off  there — beyond  the 
lynx  and  the  fox  and  the  fisher-cat,  were  the 
creatures  of  their  kind,  the  wild-wolf  pack,  to 
which  the  right  to  all  flesh  and  blood  was  com- 
mon— in  which  existed  that  savage  socialism 
of  the  wilderness,  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Wolf. 
And  Gray  Wolf,  setting  back  on  her  haunches, 
sent  forth  the  response  to  that  cry — a  wailing 
triumphant  note  that  told  her  hungry  brethren 
there  was  feasting  at  the  end  of  the  trail. 

And  the  lynx,  between  those  two  cries, 
sneaked  off  into  the  wide  and  moonlit  spaces 
of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  FIGHT  UNDEE  THE   STARS 

ON  their  haunches  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf 
waited.  Five  minutes  passed,  ten — 
fifteen — and  Gray  Wolf  became  uneasy.  No 
response  had  followed  her  call.  Again  she 
howled,  with  Kazan  quivering  and  listening 
beside  her,  and  again  there  followed  that  dead 
stillness  of  the  night.  This  was  not  the  way 
of  the  pack.  She  knew  that  it  had  not  gone 
beyond  the  reach  of  her  voice  and  its  silence 
puzzled  her.  And  then  in  a  flash  it  came  to 
them  both  that  the  pack,  or  the  single  wolf 
whose  cry  they  had  heard,  was  very  near  them. 
The  scent  was  warm.  A  few  moments  later 
Kazan  saw  a  moving  object  in  the  moonlight. 
It  was  followed  by  another,  and  still  another, 
until  there  were  five  slouching  in  a  half -circle 
about  them,  seventy  yards  away.  Then  they 
laid  themselves  flat  in  the  snow  and  were  mo- 
tionless. 

A  snarl  turned  Kazan's  eyes  to  Gray  Wolf* 

193 


194  KAZAN 

His  blind  mate  had  drawn  back.  Her  white 
fangs  gleamed  menacingly  in  the  starlight. 
Her  ears  were  flat.  Kazan  was  puzzled. 
Why  was  she  signaling  danger  to  him  when 
it  was  the  wolf,  and  not  the  lynx,  out  there  in 
the  snow?  And  why  did  the  wolves  not  come 
in  and  feast?  Slowly  he  moved  toward  them, 
and  Gray  Wolf  called  to  him  with  her  whine. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  her,  but  went  on, 
stepping  lightly,  his  head  high  in  the  air,  his 
spine  bristling. 

In  the  scent  of  the  strangers,  Kazan  was 
catching  something  now  that  was  strangely 
familiar.  It  drew  him  toward  them  more 
swiftly  and  when  at  last  he  stopped  twenty 
yards  from  where  the  little  group  lay  flattened 
in  the  snow,  his  thick  brush  waved  slightly. 
One  of  the  animals  sprang  up  and  approached. 
The  others  followed  and  in  another  moment 
Kazan  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  smelling  and 
smelled,  and  wagging  his  tail.  They  were 
dogs,  and  not  wolves. 

In  some  lonely  cabin  in  the  wilderness  their 
master  had  died,  and  they  had  taken  to  the 
forests.  They  still  bore  signs  of  the  sledge- 
fraces.  About  their  necks  were  moosehide 


A  FIGHT  UNDER  THE  STARS     195 

collars.  The  hair  was  worn  short  at  their 
flanks,  and  one  still  dragged  after  him  three 
feet  of  corded  babiche  trace.  Their  eyes 
gleamed  red  and  hungry  in  the  glow  of  the 
moon  and  the  stars.  They  were  thin,  and 
gaunt  and  starved,  and  Kazan  suddenly  turned 
and  trotted  ahead  of  them  to  the  side  of  the 
dead  bull.  Then  he  fell  back  and  sat  proudly 
on  his  haunches  beside  Gray  Wolf,  listening 
to  the  snapping  of  jaws  and  the  rending  of 
flesh  as  the  starved  pack  feasted. 

Gray  Wolf  slunk  closer  to  Kazan.  She 
muzzled  his  neck  and  Kazan  gave  her  a  swift 
dog-like  caress  of  his  tongue,  assuring  her  that 
all  was  well.  She  flattened  herself  in  the  snow 
when  the  dogs  had  finished  and  came  up  in 
their  dog  way  to  sniff  at  her,  and  make  closer 
acquaintance  with  Kazan.  Kazan  towered 
over  her,  guarding  her.  One  huge  red-eyed 
dog  who  still  dragged  the  bit  of  babiche  trace 
muzzled  Gray  Wolf's  soft  neck  for  a  fraction 
of  a  second  too  long,  and  Kazan  uttered  a  sav- 
age snarl  of  warning.  The  dog  drew  back, 
and  for  a  moment  their  fangs  gleamed  over 
Gray  Wolf's  blind  face.  It  was  the  Challenge 
of  the  Breed. 


196  KAZAN 

The  big  husky  was  the  leader  of  the  pack, 
and  if  one  of  the  other  dogs  had  snarled  at 
him,  as  Kazan  snarled  he  would  have  leaped 
at  his  throat.  But  in  Kazan,  standing  fierce 
and  half  wild  over  Gray  Wolf,  he  recognized 
none  of  the  serfdom  of  the  sledge-dogs.  It 
was  master  facing  master;  in  Kazan  it  was 
more  than  that  for  he  was  Gray  Wolf's  mate. 
In  an  instant  more  he  would  have  leaped  over 
her  body  to  have  fought  for  her,  more  than 
for  the  right  of  leadership.  But  the  big  husky 
turned  away  sullenly,  growling,  still  snarling, 
and  vented  his  rage  by  nipping  fiercely  at  the 
flank  of  one  of  his  sledge-mates. 

Gray  Wolf  understood  what  had  happened, 
though  she  could  not  see.  She  shrank  closer 
to  Kazan.  She  knew  that  the  moon  and  the 
stars  had  looked  down  on  that  thing  that  al- 
ways meant  death — the  challenge  to  the  right 
of  mate.  With  her  luring  coyness,  whining 
and  softly  muzzling  his  shoulder  and  neck,  she 
tried  to  draw  Kazan  away  from  the  pad-beaten 
circle  in  which  the  bull  lay.  Kazan's  answer 
was  an  ominous  rolling  of  smothered  thunder 


A  FIGHT  UNDER  THE  STARS     197 

deep  down  in  his  throat.  He  lay  down  beside 
her,  licked  her  blind  face  swiftly,  and  faced  the 
stranger  dogs. 

The  moon  sank  lower  and  lower  and  at  last 
dropped  behind  the  western  forests.  The 
stars  grew  paler.  One  by  one  they  faded  from 
the  sky  and  after  a  time  there  followed  the 
cold  gray  dawn  of  the  North.  In  that  dawn 
the  big  husky  leader  rose  from  the  hole  he  had 
made  in  the  snow  and  returned  to  the  bull. 
Kazan,  alert,  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant  and 
stood  also  close  to  the  bull.  The  two  circled 
ominously,  their  heads  lowered,  their  crests 
bristling.  The  husky  drew  away,  and  Kazan 
crouched  at  the  bull's  neck  and  began  tearing 
at  the  frozen  flesh.  He  was  not  hungry.  But 
in  this  way  he  showed  his  right  to  the  flesh,  his 
defiance  of  the  right  of  the  big  husky. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  forgot  Gray  Wolf. 
The  husky  had  slipped  back  like  a  shadow  and 
now  he  stood  again  over  Gray  Wolf,  sniffing 
her  neck  and  body.  Then  he  whined.  In 
that  whine  were  the  passion,  the  invitation,  the 
demand  of  the  Wild.  So  quickly  that  the 


19S  KAZAN 

eye  could  scarcely  follow  her  movement  faith- 
ful Gray  Wolf  sank  her  gleaming  fangs  in 
the  husky's  shoulder. 

A  gray  streak — nothing  more  tangible  than 
a  streak  of  gray,  silent  and  terrible,  shot 
through  the  dawn-gloom.  It  was  Kazan. 
He  came  without  a  snarl,  without  a  cry,  and 
in  a  moment  he  and  the  husky  were  in  the 
throes  of  terrific  battle. 

The  four  other  huskies  ran  in  quickly  and 
stood  waiting  a  dozen  paces  from  the  combat- 
ants. Gray  Wolf  lay  crouched  on  her  belly. 
The  giant  husky  and  the  quarter-strain  wolf- 
dog  were  not  fighting  like  sledge-dog  or  wolf. 
For  a  few  moments  rage  and  hatred  made 
them  fight  like  mongrels.  Both  had  holds. 
Now  one  was  down,  and  now  the  other,  and  so 
swiftly  did  they  change  their  positions  that  the 
four  waiting  sledge-dogs  were  puzzled  and 
stood  motionless.  Under  other  conditions  they 
would  have  leaped  upon  the  first  of  the  fighters 
to  be  thrown  upon  his  back  and  torn  him  to 
pieces.  That  was  the  way  of  the  wolf  and  the 
wolf-dog.  But  now  they  stood  back,  hesi- 
tating and  fearful. 

The  big  husky  had  never  been  beaten  in  bat- 


tie.  Great  Dane  ancestors  had  given  him  a 
huge  bulk  and  a  jaw  that  could  crush  an  ordin- 
ary dog's  head.  But  in  Kazan  he  was  meeting 
not  only  the  dog  and  the  wolf,  but  all  that  was 
best  in  the  two.  And  Kazan  had  the  advan* 
tage  of  a  few  hours  of  rest  and  a  full  stomach. 
More  than  that,  he  was  fighting  for  Gray 
Wolf.  His  fangs  had  sunk  deep  in  the 
husky's  shoulder,  and  the  husky's  long  teeth 
met  through  the  hide  and  flesh  of  his  neck. 
An  inch  deeper,  and  they  would  have  pierced 
his  jugular.  Kazan  knew  this,  as  he  crunched 
his  enemy's  shoulder-bone,  and  every  instant — 
even  in  their  fiercest  struggling — he  was  guard- 
ing against  a  second  and  more  successful  lunge 
of  those  powerful  jaws. 

At  last  the  lunge  came,  and  quicker  than 
the  wolf  itself  Kazan  freed  himself  and  leaped 
back.  His  chest  dripped  blood,  but  he  did 
not  feel  the  hurt.  They  began  slowly  to  circle, 
and  now  the  watching  sledge-dogs  drew  a  step 
or  two  nearer,  and  their  jaws  drooled  nerv- 
ously and  their  red  eyes  glared  as  they  waited 
for  the  fatal  moment.  Their  eyes  were  on  the 
big  husky.  He  became  the  pivot  of  Kazan's 
wider  circle  now,  and  he  limped  as  he  turned. 


200  KAZAN 

His  shoulder  was  broken.  His  ears  were  flat- 
tened as  he  watched  Kazan. 

Kazan's  ears  were  erect,  and  his  feet  touched 
the  snow  lightly.  All  his  fighting  cleverness 
and  all  his  caution  had  returned  to  him.  The 
blind  rage  of  a  few  moments  was  gone  and  he 
fought  now  as  he  had  fought  his  deadliest  en- 
emy, the  long-clawed  lynx.  Five  times  he 
circled  around  the  husky,  and  then  like  a  shot 
he  was  in,  sending  his  whole  weight  against  the 
husky's  shoulder,  with  the  momentum  of  a 
ten-foot  leap  behind  it.  This  time  he  did  not 
try  for  a  hold,  but  slashed  at  the  husky's  jaws. 
It  was  the  deadliest  of  all  attacks  when  that 
merciless  tribunal  of  death  stood  waiting  for 
the  first  fall  of  the  vanquished.  The  huge  dog 
was  thrown  from  his  feet.  For  a  fatal  mo- 
ment he  rolled  upon  his  side  and  in  the  mo- 
ment his  four  sledge-mates  were  upon  him. 
All  of  their  hatred  of  the  weeks  and  months 
m  which  the  long-fanged  leader  had  bullied 
them  in  the  traces  was  concentrated  upon  him 
now  and  he  was  literally  torn  into  pieces. 

Kazan  pranced  to  Gray  Wolf's  side  and 
iwith  a  joyful  whine  she  laid  her  head  over  his 
Heck.  Twice  he  had  fought  the  Fight  of 


A  FIGHT  UNDER  THE  STARS    201 

Death  for  her.  Twice  he  had  won.  And  in 
her  blindness  Gray  Wolf's  soul — if  soul  she 
had — rose  in  exultation  to  the  cold  gray  sky, 
and  her  breast  panted  against  Kazan's 
shoulder  as  she  listened  to  the  crunching  of 
fangs  in  the  flesh  and  bone  of  the  foe  her  lord 
and  master  had  overthrown. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  CALL 

FOLLOWED  days  of  feasting  on  the 
frozen  flesh  of  the  old  bull.  In  vain 
Gray  Wolf  tried  to  lure  Kazan  off  into  the 
forests  and  the  swamps.  Day  by  day  the 
temperature  rose.  There  was  hunting  now. 
And  Gray  Wolf  wanted  to  be  alone — with 
Kazan.  But  with  Kazan,  as  with  most  men, 
leadership  and  power  roused  new  sensations. 
And  he  was  the  leader  of  the  dog-pack,  as 
he  had  once  been  a  leader  among  the  wolves. 
Not  only  Gray  Wolf  followed  at  his  flank 
now,  but  the  four  huskies  trailed  behind  him. 
Once  more  he  was  experiencing  that  triumph 
and  strange  thrill  that  he  had  almost  forgotten 
and  only  Gray  Wolf,  in  that  eternal  night  of 
her  blindness,  felt  with  dread  foreboding  the 
danger  into  which  his  newly  achieved  czarship 
might  lead  him. 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  they  re- 
mained in  the  neighborhood  of  the  dead  moose, 


THE  CALL  203 

ready  to  defend  it  against  others,  and  yet  each 
day  and  each  night  growing  less  vigilant  in  their 
guard.  Then  came  the  fourth  night,  on  which 
they  killed  a  young  doe.  Kazan  led  in  that 
chase  and  for  the  first  time,  in  the  excitement 
of  having  the  pack  at  his  back,  he  left  his  blind 
mate  behind.  When  they  came  to  the  kill 
he  was  the  first  to  leap  at  its  soft  throat.  And 
not  until  he  had  begun  to  tear  at  the  doe's 
flesh  did  the  others  dare  to  eat.  He  was  mas- 
ter. He  could  send  them  back  with  a  snarl. 
At  the  gleam  of  his  fangs  they  crouched  quiv- 
ering on  their  bellies  in  the  snow. 

Kazan's  blood  was  fomented  with  brute  ex- 
ultation, and  the  excitement  and  fascination 
that  came  in  the  possession  of  new  power  took 
the  place  of  Gray  Wolf  each  day  a  little  more. 
She  came  in  half  an  hour  after  the  kill,  and 
there  was  no  longer  the  lithesome  alertness  to 
her  slender  legs,  or  gladness  in  the  tilt  of  her 
ears  or  the  poise  of  her  head.  She  did  not  eat 
much  of  the  doe.  Her  blind  face  was  turned 
always  in  Kazan's  direction.  Wherever  he 
moved  she  followed  with  her  unseeing  eyes,  as 
if  expecting  each  moment  his  old  signal  to 
her — that  low  throat-note  that  had  called  to  her 


204.  KAZAN 

so  often  when  they  were  alone  in  the  wilder* 
ness. 

In  Kazan,  as  leader  of  the  pack,  there  was 
working  a  curious  change.  If  his  mates  had 
been  wolves  it  would  not  have  been  difficult  for 
Gray  Wolf  to  have  lured  him  away.  But 
Kazan  was  among  his  own  kind.  He  was  a 
dog.  And  they  were  dogs.  Fires  that  had 
burned  down  and  ceased  to  warm  him  flamed 
up  in  him  anew.  In  his  life  with  Gray  Wolf 
one  thing  had  oppressed  him  as  it  could  not 
oppress  her,  and  that  thing  was  loneliness. 
Nature  had  created  him  of  that  kind  which  re- 
quires companionship — not  of  one  but  of  many. 
It  had  given  him  birth  that  he  might  listen 
to  and  obey  the  commands  of  the  voice  of 
man.  He  had  grown  to  hate  men,  but  of  the 
dogs — his  kind — he  was  a  part.  He  had  been 
happy  with  Gray  Wolf,  happier  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  the  companionship  of  men  and 
his  blood-brothers.  But  he  had  been  a  long 
time  separated  from  the  life  that  had  once 
been  his  and  the  call  of  blood  made  him  for 
a  time  forget.  And  only  Gray  Wolf,  with 
that  wonderful  super-instinct  which  nature 


THE  CALL  205 

was  giving  her  in  place  of  her  lost  sight,  fore- 
saw the  end  to  which  it  was  leading  him. 

Each  day  the  temperature  continued  to  rise 
until  when  the  sun  was  warmest  the  snow  be- 
gan to  thaw  a  little.  This  was  two  weeks  after 
the  fight  near  the  bull.  Gradually  the  pack 
had  swung  eastward,  until  it  was  now  fifty 
miles  east  and  twenty  miles  south  of  the  old 
home  under  the  windfall.  More  than  ever 
Gray  Wolf  began  to  long  for  their  old  nest 
under  the  fallen  trees.  Again  with  those  first 
promises  of  spring  in  sunshine  and  air,  there 
was  coming  also  for  the  second  time  in  her  life 
the  promise  of  approaching  motherhood. 

But  her  efforts  to  draw  Kazan  back  were 
unavailing,  and  in  spite  of  her  protest  he  wan- 
dered each  day  a  little  farther  east  and  south 
at  the  head  of  his  pack. 

Instinct  impelled  the  four  huskies  to  move 
in  that  direction.  They  had  not  yet  been  long 
enough  a  part  of  the  wild  to  forget  the  neces- 
sity of  man  and  in  that  direction  there  was 
man.  In  that  direction,  and  not  far  from 
them  now,  was  the  Hudson  Bay  Company's 
post  to  which  they  and  their  dead  master  owed 


206  KAZAN 

their  allegiance.  Kazan  did  not  know  this* 
but  one  day  something  happened  to  bring  back 
visions  and  desires  that  widened  still  more  the 
gulf  between  him  and  Gray  Wolf. 

They  had  come  to  the  cap  of  a  ridge  when, 
something  stopped  them.  It  was  a  man's 
voice  crying  shrilly  that  word  of  long  ago  that 
had  so  often  stirred  the  blood  in  Kazan's  own 
veins — ffmjhoosh!  mfhoosJi!  m'hoosh!" — and 
from  the  ridge  they  looked  down  upon  the  open 
space  of  the  plain,  where  a  team  of  six  dogs  was 
trotting  ahead  of  a  sledge,  with  a  man  running 
behind  them,  urging  them  on  at  every  other 
step  with  that  cry  of  "m'hoosh!  m'hoosh! 
m'hoosh!" 

Trembling  and  undecided,  the  four  huskies 
and  the  wolf-dog  stood  on  the  ridge  with  Gray 
Wolf  cringing  behind  them.  Not  until  man 
and  dogs  and  sledge  had  disappeared  did  they 
move,  and  then  they  trotted  down  to  the  trail 
and  sniffed  at  it  whiningly  and  excitedly. 
For  a  mile  or  two  they  followed  it,  Kazan  and 
his  mates  going  fearlessly  in  the  trail.  Gray 
Wolf  hung  back,  traveling  twenty  yards  tc 
the  right  of  them,  with  the  hot  man-scent  driv- 
ing the  blood  feverishly  through  her  brain. 


THE  CALL  207 

Only  her  love  for  Kazan — and  the  faith  she 
still  had  in  him — kept  her  that  near. 

At  the  edge  of  a  swamp  Kazan  halted  and 
turned  away  from  the  trail.  With  the  desire 
that  was  growing  in  him  there  was  still  that 
old  suspicion  which  nothing  could  quite  wipe 
out — the  suspicion  that  was  an  inheritance  of 
his  quarter-strain  of  wolf.  Gray  Wolf 
whined  joyfully  when  he  turned  into  the  forest, 
and  drew  so  close  to  him  that  her  shoulder 
rubbed  against  Kazan's  as  they  traveled  side 
by  side. 

The  "slush"'  snows  followed  fast  after  this. 
And  the  "slush"  snows  meant  spring — and  the 
emptying  of  the  wilderness  of  human  life. 
Kazan  and  his  mates  soon  began  to  scent  the 
presence  and  the  movement  of  this  life.  They 
were  now  within  thirty  miles  of  the  post.  For 
a  hundred  miles  on  all  sides  of  them  the  trap- 
pers were  moving  in  with  their  late  winter's 
catch  of  furs.  From  east  and  west,  south  and 
north,  all  trails  led  to  the  post.  The  pack 
was  caught  in  the  mesh  of  them.  For  a  week 
not  a  day  passed  that  they  did  not  cross  a  fresh 
trail,  and  sometimes  two  or  three. 

Gray  Wolf  was  haunted  by  constant  fear. 


208  KAZAN 

In  her  blindness  she  knew  that  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  menace  of  men.  To  Kazan 
what  was  coming  to  pass  had  more  and  more 
ceased  to  fill  him  with  fear  and  caution.  Three 
times  that  week  he  heard  the  shouts  of  men 
— and  once  he  heard  a  white  man's  laughter 
and  the  barking  of  dogs  as  their  master  tossed 
them  their  daily  feed  of  fish.  In  the  air  he 
caught  the  pungent  scent  of  camp-fires  and 
one  night,  in  the  far  distance,  he  heard  a  wild 
snatch  of  song,  followed  by  the  yelping  and 
barking  of  a  dog-pack. 

Slowly  and  surely  the  lure  of  man  drew 
him  nearer  to  the  post — a  mile  to-night,  two 
miles  to-morrow,  but  always  nearer.  And 
Gray  Wolf,  fighting  her  losing  fight  to  the 
end,  sensed  in  the  danger-filled  air  the  near- 
ness of  that  hour  when  he  would  respond  to  the 
final  call  and  she  would  be  left  alone. 

These  were  days  of  activity  and  excitement 
at  the  fur  company's  post,  the  days  of  account- 
ing, of  profit  and  of  pleasure ; — the  days  when 
the  wilderness  poured  in  its  treasure  of  fur, 
to  be  sent  a  little  later  to  London  and  Paris 
and  the  capitals  of  Europe.  And  this  year 
there  was  more  than  the  usual  interest  in  the 


THE  CALL  20S 

foregathering  of  the  forest  people.  The 
plague  had  wrought  its  terrible  havoc,  and  not 
until  the  fur-hunters  had  come  to  answer  to 
the  spring  roll-call  would  it  be  known  accu- 
rately who  had  lived  and  who  had  died. 

The  Chippewans  and  half-breeds  from  the 
south  began  to  arrive  first,  with  their  teams 
of  mongrel  curs,  picked  up  along  the  borders 
of  civilization.  Close  after  them  came  the 
hunters  from  the  western  barren  lands,  bring- 
ing with  them  loads  of  white  fox  and  caribou 
skins,  and  an  army  of  big-footed,  long-legged 
Mackenzie  hounds  that  pulled  like  horses  and 
wailed  like  whipped  puppies  when  the  huskies 
and  Eskimo  dogs  set  upon  them.  Packs  of 
fierce  Labrador  dogs,  never  vanquished  ex- 
cept by  death,  came  from  close  to  Hudson's 
Bay.  Team  after  team  of  little  yellow  and 
gray  Eskimo  dogs,  as  quick  with  their  fangs 
as  were  their  black  and  swift-running  masters 
with  their  hands  and  feet,  met  the  much  larger 
and  dark-colored  Malemutes  from  the  Atha- 
basca. Enemies  of  all  these  packs  of  fierce 
huskies  trailed  in  from  all  sides,  fighting,  snap- 
ping and  snarling,  with  the  lust  of  killing  deep 
born  in  them  from  their  wolf  progenitors. 


210  KAZAN 

There  was  no  cessation  in  the  battle  of  the 
fangs.  It  began  with  the  first  brute  arrivals. 
It  continued  from  dawn  through  the  day  and 
around  the  camp-fires  at  night.  There  was 
never  an  end  to  the  strife  between  the  dogs, 
and  between  the  men  and  the  dogs.  The  snow 
was  trailed  and  stained  with  blood  and  the 
scent  of  it  added  greater  fierceness  to  the 
wolf-breeds. 

Half  a  dozen  battles  were  fought  to  the  death 
each  day  and  night.  Those  that  died  were 
chiefly  the  south-bred  curs — mixtures  of  mas- 
tiff, Great  Dane,  and  sheep-dog — and  the 
fatally  slow  Mackenzie  hounds.  About  the 
post  rose  the  smoke  of  a  hundred  camp-fires, 
and  about  these  fires  gathered  the  women  and 
the  children  of  the  hunters.  When  the  snow 
was  no  longer  fit  for  sledging,  Williams,  the 
factor,  noted  that  there  were  many  who  had 
not  come,  and  the  accounts  of  these  he  later 
scratched  out  of  his  ledgers  knowing  that  thejr 
were  victims  of  the  plague. 

At  last  came  the  night  of  the  Big  Carnival. 
For  weeks  and  months  women  and  children  and 
men  had  been  looking  forward  to  this.  In 
scores  of  forest  cabins,  in  smoke-blackened 


THE  CALL  211 

tepees,  and  even  in  the  frozen  homes  of  the 
little  Eskimos,  anticipation  of  this  wild  night 
of  pleasure  had  given  an  added  zest  to  life. 
It  was  the  Big  Circus — the  good  time  given 
twice  each  year  by  the  company  to  its  people. 
This  year,  to  offset  the  memory  of  plague 
and  death,  the  factor  had  put  forth  unusual 
exertions.  His  hunters  had  killed  four  fat 
caribou.  In  the  clearing  there  were  great  piles 
of  dry  logs,  and  in  the  center  of  all  there  rose 
eight  ten- foot  tree-butts  crotched  at  the  top; 
and  from  crotch  to  crotch  there  rested  a  stout 
sapling  stripped  of  bark,  and  on  each  sapling 
was  spitted  the  carcass  of  a  caribou,  to  be 
roasted  whole  by  the  heat  of  the  fire  beneath. 
The  fires  were  lighted  at  dusk,  and  Williams 
himself  started  the  first  of  those  wild  songs 
of  the  Northland — the  song  of  the  caribou,  as 
the  flames  leaped  up  into  the  dark  night. 

"Oh,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo, 
He  roas'  on  high, 
Jes'  under  ze  sky. 
Ze  beeg  white  cariboo-oo-oo !" 

"Now!"  he  yelled.     "Now— all  together!" 
And  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm,  the  forest 


212  KAZAN 

people  awakened  from  their  silence  of  months, 
and  the  song  burst  forth  in  a  savage  frenzy 
that  reached  to  the  skies. 

Two  miles  to  the  south  and  west  that  first 
thunder  of  human  voice  reached  the  ears  of 
Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  and  the  masterless 
huskies.  And  with  the  voices  of  men  they 
heard  now  the  excited  howlings  of  dogs.  The 
huskies  faced  the  direction  of  the  sounds,  mov- 
ing restlessly  and  whining.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments Kazan  stood  as  though  carven  of  rock. 
Then  he  turned  his  head,  and  his  first  look  was 
to  Gray  Wolf.  She  had  slunk  back  a  dozen 
feet  and  lay  crouched  under  the  thick  cover 
of  a  balsam  shrub.  Her  body,  legs  and  neck 
were  flattened  in  the  snow.  She  made  no 
sound,  but  her  lips  were  drawn  back  and  her 
teeth  shone  white. 

Kazan  trotted  back  to  her,  sniffed  at  her 
blind  face  and  whined.  Gray  Wolf  still  did 
not  move.  He  returned  to  the  dogs  and  his 
jaws  opened  and  closed  with  a  snap.  Still 
more  clearly  came  the  wild  voice  of  the  carnival, 
and  no  longer  to  be  held  back  by  Kazan's  lead- 
ership, the  four  huskies  dropped  their  heads 


THE  CALL  213 

and  slunk  like  shadows  in  its  direction.  Ka- 
zan hesitated,  urging  Gray  Wolf.  But  not  a 
muscle  of  Gray  Wolf's  body  moved.  She 
would  have  followed  him  in  face  of  fire  but  not 
in  face  of  man.  Not  a  sound  escaped  her  ears. 
She  heard  the  quick  fall  of  Kazan's  feet  as  he 
left  her.  In  another  moment  she  knew  that  he 
was  gone.  Then — and  not  until  then — did 
she  lift  her  head,  and  from  her  soft  throat  there 
broke  a  whimpering  cry. 

It  was  her  last  call  to  Kazan.  But  stronger 
than  that  there  was  running  through  Kazan's 
excited  blood  the  call  of  man  and  of  dog.  The 
huskies  were  far  in  advance  of  him  now  and 
for  a  Tew  moments  he  raced  madly  to  overtake 
them.  Then  he  slowed  down  until  he  was 
trotting,  and  a  hundred  yards  farther  on  he 
stopped.  Less  than  a  mile  away  he  could  see 
where  the  flames  of  the  great  fires  were  redden- 
ing the  sky.  He  gazed  back  to  see  if  Gray 
Wolf  was  following  and  then  went  on  until 
he  struck  an  open  and  hard  traveled  trail. 
It  was  beaten  with  the  footprints  of  men  and 
dogs,  and  over  it  two  of  the  caribou  had  been 
dragged  a  day  or  two  before. 

At  last  he  came  to  the  thinned  out  strip  of 


214  KAZAN 

timber  that  surrounded  the  clearing  and  the 
flare  of  the  flames  was  in  his  eyes.  The  bed- 
lam of  sound  that  came  to  him  now  was  like 
fire  in  his  brain.  He  heard  the  song  and  the 
laughter  of  men,  the  shrill  cries  of  women  and 
children,  the  barking  and  snarling  and  fighting 
of  a  hundred  dogs.  He  wanted  to  rush  out 
and  join  them,  to  become  again  a  part  of  what 
he  had  once  been.  Yard  by  yard  he  sneaked 
through  the  thin  timber  until  he  reached  the 
edge  of  the  clearing.  There  he  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  a  spruce  and  looked  out  upon  life 
as  he  had  once  lived  it,  trembling,  wistful  and 
yet  hesitating  in  that  final  moment. 

A  hundred  yards  away  was  the  savage  circle 
of  men  and  dogs  and  fire.  His  nostrils  were 
filled  with  the  rich  aroma  of  the  roasting  car- 
ibou, and  as  he  crouched  down,  still  with  that 
wolfish  caution  that  Gray  Wolf  had  taught 
him,  men  with  long  poles  brought  the  huge 
carcasses  crashing  down  upon  the  melting 
snow  about  the  fires.  In  one  great  rush  the 
horde  of  wild  revelers  crowded  in  with  bared 
knives,  and  a  snarling  mass  of  dogs  closed 
in  behind  them.  In  another  moment  he  had 
forgotten  Gray  Wolf,  had  forgotten  all  that 


THE  CALL  215 

man  and  the  wild  had  taught  him,  and  like  a 
gray  streak  was  across  the  open. 

The  dogs  were  surging  back  when  he  reached 
them,  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  factor's  men 
lashing  them  in  the  faces  with  long  caribou- 
gut  whips.  The  sting  of  a  lash  fell  in  a  fierce 
cut  over  an  Eskimo  dog's  shoulder,  and  in 
snapping  at  the  lash  his  fangs  struck  Kazan's 
rump.  With  lightning  swiftness  Kazan  re- 
turned the  cut,  and  in  an  instant  the  jaws  of 
the  dogs  had  met.  In  another  instant  they 
were  down  and  Kazan  had  the  Eskimo  dog  by 
the  throat. 

With  shouts  the  men  rushed  in.  Again  and 
again  their  whips  cut  like  knives  through  the 
air.  Their  blows  fell  on  Kazan,  who  was  up- 
permost, and  as  he  felt  the  burning  pain  of  the 
scourging  whips  there  flooded  through  him  all 
at  once  the  fierce  memory  of  the  days  of  old — 
the  days  of  the  Club  and  the  Lash.  He 
snarled.  Slowly  he  loosened  his  hold  of  the 
Eskimo  dog's  throat.  And  then,  out  of  the 
melee  of  dogs  and  men,  there  sprang  another 
man — with  a  club!  It  fell  on  Kazan's  back 
and  the  force  of  it  sent  him  flat  into  the  snow. 
It  was  raised  again.  Behind  the  club  there 


216  KAZAN 

was  a  face — a  brutal,  fire-reddened  face.  It 
was  such  a  face  that  had  driven  Kazan  into 
the  wild,  and  as  the  club  fell  again  he  evaded 
the  full  weight  of  its  blow  and  his  fangs 
gleamed  like  ivory  knives.  A  third  time  the 
club  was  raised,  and  this  time  Kazan  met  it 
in  mid-air,  and  his  teeth  ripped  the  length  of 
the  man's  forearm. 

"Good  God  I"  shrieked  the  man  in  pain,  and 
Kazan  caught  the  gleam  of  a  rifle  barrel  as  he 
sped  toward  the  forest.  A  shot  followed. 
Something  like  a  red-hot  coal  ran  the  length 
of  Kazan's  hip,  and  deep  in  the  forest  he 
stopped  to  lick  at  the  burning  furrow  where 
the  bullet  had  gone  just  deep  enough  to  take 
the  skin  and  hair  from  his  flesh. 

Gray  Wolf  was  still  waiting  under  the 
balsam  shrub  when  Kazan  returned  to  her. 
Joyously  she  sprang  forth  to  meet  him.  Once 
more  the  man  had  sent  back  the  old  Kazan  to 
her.  He  muzzled  her  neck  and  face,  and  stood 
for  a  few  moments  with  his  head  resting  across 
her  back,  listening  to  the  distant  sound. 

Then,  with  ears  laid  flat,  he  set  out  straight 
into  the  north  and  west.  And  now  Gray 


THE  CALL  217 

Wolf  ran  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him  like 
the  Gray  Wolf  of  the  days  before  the  dog- 
pack  came;  for  that  wonderful  thing  that  lay 
beyond  the  realm  of  reason  told  her  that  once 
more  she  was  comrade  and  mate,  and  that 
their  trail  that  night  was  leading  to  their  old 
home  under  the  windfall. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HIS  SON 

IT  happened  that  Kazan  was  to  remember 
three  things  above  all  others.  He  could 
never  quite  forget  his  old  days  in  the  traces, 
though  they  were  growing  more  shadowy  and 
indistinct  in  his  memory  as  the  summers  and 
the  winters  passed.  Like  a  dream  there  came 
to  him  a  memory  of  the  time  he  had  gone  down 
to  Civilization.  Like  dreams  were  the  visions 
that  rose  before  him  now  and  then  of  the  face 
of  the  First  Woman,  and  of  the  faces  of 
masters  who — to  him — had  lived  ages  ago. 
And  never  would  he  quite  forget  the  Fire,  and 
his  fights  with  man  and  beast,  and  his  long 
chases  in  the  moonlight.  But  two  things 
•were  always  with  him  as  if  they  had  been  but 
yesterday,  rising  clear  and  unforgetable  above 
all  others,  like  the  two  stars  in  the  North  that 
never  lost  their  brilliance.  One  was  Woman. 
The  other  was  the  terrible  fight  of  that  night 
on  the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock,  when  the  lynx 

218 


HIS  SON  219 

had  blinded  forever  his  wild  mate,  Gray  Wolf. 
Certain  events  remain  indelibly  fixed  in  the 
minds  of  men;  and  so,  in  a  not  very  different 
way,  they  remain  in  the  minds  of  beasts. 
It  takes  neither  brain  nor  reason  to  measure 
the  depths  of  sorrow  or  of  happiness.  And 
Kazan  in  his  unreasoning  way  knew  that  con- 
tentment and  peace,  a  full  stomach,  and 
caresses  and  kind  words  instead  of  blows  had 
come  to  him  through  Woman,  and  that  com- 
radeship in  the  wilderness — faith,  loyalty  and 
devotion — were  a  part  of  Gray  Wolf.  The 
third  unforgetable  thing  was  about  to  occur  in 
the  home  they  had  found  for  themselves  un- 
der the  swamp  windfall  during  the  days  of 
cold  and  famine. 

They  had  left  the  swamp  over  a  month  be- 
fore when  it  was  smothered  deep  in  snow. 
On  the  day  they  returned  to  it  the  sun  was 
shining  warmly  in  the  first  glorious  days  of 
spring  warmth.  Everywhere,  big  and  small 
there  were  the  rushing  torrents  of  melting 
snows  and  the  crackle  of  crumbling  ice,  the 
dying  cries  of  thawing  rock  and  earth  and 
tree,  and  each  night  for  many  nights  past  the 
cold  pale  glow  of  the  aurora  borealis  had 


220  KAZAN 

crept  farther  and  farther  toward  the  Pole  in 
fading  glory.  So  early  as  this  the  poplar 
buds  had  begun  to  swell  and  the  air  was  filled 
with  the  sweet  odor  of  balsam,  spruce  and 
cedar.  Where  there  had  been  famine  and 
death  and  stillness  six  weeks  before,  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf  now  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
swamp  and  breathed  the  earthy  smells  of 
spring,  and  listened  to  the  sounds  of  life. 
Over  their  heads  a  pair  of  newly-mated  moose- 
birds  fluttered  and  scolded  at  them.  A  big 
jay  sat  pluming  himself  in  the  sunshine. 
Farther  in  they  heard  the  crack  of  a  stick 
broken  under  a  heavy  hoof.  From  the  ridge 
behind  them  they  caught  the  raw  scent  of  a 
mother  bear,  busy  pulling  down  the  tender 
poplar  buds  for  her  six-weeks-old  cubs,  born 
while  she  was  still  deep  in  her  winter  sleep. 
In  the  warmth  of  the  sun  and  the  sweetness 
of  the  air  there  breathed  to  Gray  Wolf  the 
mystery  of  matehood  and  of  motherhood.  She 
whined  softly  and  rubbed  her  blind  face 
against  Kazan.  For  days,  in  her  way,  she 
tried  to  tell  him.  More  than  ever  she  wanted 
to  curl  herself  up  in  that  warm  dry  nest  un- 
der the  windfall.  She  had  no  desire  to  hunt. 


HIS  SON  221 

The  crack  of  the  dry  stick  under  a  cloven  hoof 
and  the  warm  scent  of  the  she-bear  and  her 
cubs  roused  none  of  the  old  instincts  in  her. 
She  wanted  to  curl  herself  up  in  the  old  wind- 
fall— and  wait.  And  she  tried  hard  to  make 
Kazan  understand  her  desire. 

Now  that  the  snow  was  gone  they  found  that 
a  narrow  creek  lay  between  them  and  the  knoll 
on  which  the  windfall  was  situated.  Gray 
Wolf  picked  up  her  ears  at  the  tumult  of  the 
little  torrent.  Since  the  day  of  the  Fire,  when 
Kazan  and  she  had  saved  themselves  on  the 
sand-bar,  she  had  ceased  to  have  the  inherent 
wolf  horror  of  water.  She  followed  fear- 
lessly, even  eagerly,  behind  Kazan  as  he  sought 
a  place  where  they  could  ford  the  rushing  little 
stream.  On  the  other  side  Kazan  could  see 
the  big  windfall.  Gray  Wolf  could  smell 
it  and  she  whined  joyously,  with  her  blind  face 
turned  toward  it.  A  hundred  yards  up  the 
stream  a  big  cedar  had  fallen  over  it  and  Kazan 
began  to  cross.  For  a  moment  Gray  Wolf 
hesitated,  and  then  followed.  Side  by  side 
they  trotted  to  the  windfall.  With  their  heads 
and  shoulders  in  the  dark  opening  to  their  nest 
they  scented  the  air  long  and  cautiously. 


222  KAZAN 

Then  they  entered.  Kazan  heard  Gray  Wolf 
as  ?He  flung  herself  down  on  the  dry  floor  of 
the  snug  cavern.  She  was  panting,  not  from 
exhaustion,  but  because  she  was  filled  with  a 
sensation  of  contentment  and  happiness.  In 
the  darkness  Kazan's  own  jaws  fell  apart. 
He,  too,  was  glad  to  get  back  to  their  old  home. 
He  went  to  Gray  Wolf  and,  panting  still 
harder,  she  licked  his  face.  It  had  but  one 
meaning.  And  Kazan  understood. 

For  a  moment  he  lay  down  beside  her,  listen- 
ing, and  eying  the  opening  to  their  nest. 
Then  he  began  to  sniff  about  the  log  walls. 
He  was  close  to  the  opening  when  a  sudden 
fresh  scent  came  to  him,  and  he  grew  rigid,  and 
his  bristles  stood  up.  The  scent  was  followed 
by  a  whimpering,  babyish  chatter.  A  porcu- 
pine entered  the  opening  and  proceeded  to  ad- 
.yance  in  its  foolish  fashion,  still  chattering  in 
that  babyish  way  that  has  made  its  life  invio- 
lable at  the  hands  of  man.  Kazan  had  heard 
that  sound  before,  and  like  all  other  beasts  had 
learned  to  ignore  the  presence  of  the  innocu- 
ous creature  that  made  it.  But  just  now  he 
did  not  stop  to  consider  that  what  he  saw  was 
a  porcupine  and  that  at  his  first  snarl  the  good- 


HIS  SON  223 

humored  little  creature  would  waddle  away 
as  fast  as  it  could,  still  chattering  baby  talk  to 
itself.  His  first  reasoning  was  that  it  was  a 
live  thing  invading  the  home  to  which  Gray 
Wolf  and  he  had  just  returned.  A  day  later, 
or  perhaps  an  hour  later,  he  would  have  driven 
it  back  with  a  growl.  Now  he  leaped  upon  it. 
A  wild  chattering,  intermingled  with  pig- 
like  squeaks,  and  then  a  rising  staccato  of 
howls  followed  the  attack.  Gray  Wolf 
sprang  to  the  opening.  The  porcupine  was 
rolled  up  in  a  thousand-spiked  ball  a  dozen 
feet  away,  and  she  could  hear  Kazan  tearing 
about  in  the  throes  of  the  direst  agony  that 
can  befall  a  beast  of  the  forests.  His  face 
and  nose  were  a  mat  of  quills.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments he  rolled  and  dug  in  the  wet  mold  and 
earth,  pawing  madly  at  the  things  that  pierced 
his  flesh.  Then  he  set  off  like  all  dogs  will 
who  have  come  into  contact  with  the  friendly 
porcupine,  and  raced  again  and  again  around 
the  windfall,  howling  at  every  jump.  Gray 
Wolf  took  the  matter  coolly.  It  is  possible 
that  at  times  there  are  moments  of  humor  in 
the  lives  of  animals.  If  so,  she  saw  this  one. 
She  scented  the  porcupine  and  she  knew  that 


224  KAZAN 

Kazan  was  full  of  quills.  As  there  was  noth- 
ing  to  do  and  nothing  to  fight  she  sat  back  on 
her  haunches  and  waited,  pricking  up  her  ears 
every  time  Kazan  passed  her  in  his  mad  cir- 
cuit around  the  windfall.  At  his  fourth  01 
fifth  heat  the  porcupine  smoothed  itself  down 
a  little,  and  continuing  the  interrupted  thread 
of  its  chatter  waddled  to  a  near-by  poplar, 
climbed  it  and  began  to  gnaw  the  tender  bark 
from  a  limb. 

At  last  Kazan  halted  before  Gray  Wolf. 
The  first  agony  of  a  hundred  little  needles 
piercing  his  flesh  had  deadened  into  a  steady 
burning  pain.  Gray  Wolf  went  over  to 
him  and  investigated  him  cautiously.  With 
her  teeth  she  seized  the  ends  of  two  or 
three  of  the  quills  and  pulled  them  out.  Ka- 
zan was  very  much  dog  now.  He  gave  a 
yelp,  and  whimpered  as  Gray  Wolf  jerked  out 
a  second  bunch  of  quills.  Then  he  flattened 
himself  on  his  belly,  sketched  out  his  forelegs, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  without  any  other  sound 
except  an  occasional  yelp  of  pain  allowed 
Gray  Wolf  to  go  on  with  the  operation.  For- 
tunately he  had  escaped  getting  any  of  the 
quills  in  his  mouth  and  tongue.  But  his  nose 


HIS  SON  225 

and  jaws  were  soon  red  with  blood.  For  an 
hour  Gray  Wolf  kept  faithfully  at  her  task 
and  by  the  end  of  that  time  had  succeeded  in 
pulling  out  most  of  the  quills.  A  few  still 
remained,  too  short  and  too  deeply  inbedded 
for  her  to  extract  with  her  teeth. 

After  this  Kazan  went  down  to  the  creek 
and  buried  his  burning  muzzle  in  the  cold  water. 
This  gave  him  some  relief,  but  only  for  a  short 
time.  The  quills  that  remained  worked  their 
way  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  flesh,  like  liv- 
ing things.  Nose  and  lips  began  to  swell. 
Blood  and  saliva  dripped  from  his  mouth  and 
his  eyes  grew  red.  Two  hours  after  Gray 
Wolf  had  retired  to  her  nest  under  the  wind- 
fall a  quill  had  completely  pierced  his  lip  and 
began  to  prick  his  tongue.  In  desperation 
Kazan  chewed  viciously  upon  a  piece  of  wood. 
This  broke  and  crumpled  the  quill,  and  de- 
stroyed its  power  to  do  further  harm.  Na- 
ture had  told  him  the  one  thing  to  do  to  save 
himself.  Most  of  that  day  he  spent  in  gnaw- 
ing at  wood  and  crunching  mouthfuls  of  earth 
and  mold  between  his  jaws.  In  this  way  the 
barb-toothed  points  of  the  quills  were  dulled 
and  broken  as  they  came  through.  At  dusk  he 


226  KAZAN 

crawled  under  the  windfall,  and  Gray  Wolf 
gently  licked  his  muzzle  with  her  soft  cool 
tongue.  Frequently  during  the  night  Kazan 
went  to  the  creek  and  found  relief  in  its  ice- 
cold  water. 

The  next  day  he  had  what  the  forest  people 
call  "porcupine  mumps."  His  face  was 
swollen  until  Gray  Wolf  would  have  laughed 
if  she  had  been  human,  and  not  blind.  His 
chops  bulged  like  cushions.  His  eyes  were 
mere  slits.  When  he  went  out  into  the  day 
he  blinked,  for  he  could  see  scarcely  better 
than  his  sightless  mate.  But  the  pain  was 
mostly  gone.  The  night  that  followed  he  be- 
gan to  think  of  hunting,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing before  it  was  yet  dawn  he  brought  a  rab- 
bit into  their  den.  A  few  hours  later  he 
would  have  brought  a  spruce  partridge  to 
Gray  Wolf,  but  just  as  he  was  about  to  spring 
upon  his  feathered  prey  the  soft  chatter  of  a 
porcupine  a  few  yards  away  brought  him  to 
a  sudden  stop.  Few  things  could  make  Kazan 
drop  his  tail.  But  that  inane  and  incoherent 
prattle  of  the  little  spiked  beast  sent  him  off 
at  double-quick  with  his  tail  between  his  legs. 
As  man  abhors  and  evades  the  creeping  ser- 


HIS  SON  227 

pent,  so  Kazan  would  hereafter  evade  this  lit- 
tle creature  of  the  forests  that  never  in  an- 
imal history  has  been  known  to  lose  its  good- 
humor  or  pick  a  quarrel. 

Two  weeks  of  lengthening  days,  of  increas- 
ing warmth,  of  sunshine  and  hunting,  followed 
Kazan's  adventure  with  the  porcupine.  The 
last  of  the  snow  went  rapidly.  Out  of  the 
earth  began  to  spring  tips  of  green.  The 
bakneesh  vine  glistened  redder  each  day,  the 
poplar  buds  began  to  split,  and  in  the  sunniest 
spots  between  the  rocks  of  the  ridge?  the  lit- 
tle white  snow-flowers  began  to  give  a  final 
proof  that  spring  had  come.  For  the  first  of 
those  two  weeks  Gray  Wolf  hunted  frequently 
with  Kazan.  They  did  not  go  far.  The 
swamp  was  alive  with  small  game  and  each 
day  or  night  they  killed  fresh  meat.  After 
the  first  week  Gray  Wolf  hunted  less.  Then 
came  the  soft  and  balmy  night,  glorious  in 
the  radiance  of  a  full  spring  moon  when  she 
refused  to  leave  the  windfall.  Kazan  did  not 
urge  her.  Instinct  made  him  understand,  and 
he  did  not  go  far  from  the  windfall  that  night 
in  his  hunt.  When  he  returned  he  brought 
a  rabbit. 


228  KAZAN 

Came  then  the  night  when  from  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  windfall  Gray  Wolf  warned 
him  back  with  a  low  snarl.  He  stood  in 
the  opening,  a  rabbit  between  his  jaws.  He 
took  no  offense  at  the  snarl,  but  stood  for 
a  moment,  gazing  into  the  gloom  where  Gray 
Wolf  had  hidden  herself.  Then  he  dropped 
the  rabbit  and  lay  down  squarely  in  the  open- 
ing. After  a  little  he  rose  restlessly  and  went 
outside.  But  he  did  not  leave  the  windfall. 
It  was  day  when  he  reentered.  He  sniffed, 
as  he  had  sniffed  once  before  a  long  time  ago, 
between  the  boulders  at  the  top  of  the  Sun 
Rock.  That  which  was  in  the  air  was  no 
longer  a  mystery  to  him.  He  came  nearer 
and  Gray  Wolf  did  not  snarl.  She  whined 
coaxingly  as  he  touched  her.  Then  his  muz- 
zle found  something  else.  It  was  soft  and 
warm  and  made  a  queer  little  sniffling  sound. 
There  was  a  responsive  whine  in  his  throat,  and 
in  the  darkness  came  the  quick  soft  caress  of 
Gray  Wolf's  tongue.  Kazan  returned  to  the 
sunshine  and  stretched  himself  out  before  the 
door  of  the  windfall.  His  jaws  dropped  open, 
for  he  was  filled  with  a  strange  contentment. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   EDUCATION    OF   BA-REE 

ROBBED  once  of  the  joys  of  parenthood 
by  the  murder  on  the  Sun  Rock,  both 
Gray  Wolf  and  Kazan  were  different  from 
what  they  would  have  been  had  the  big  gray 
lynx  not  come  into  their  lives  at  that  time.  As 
if  it  were  but  yesterday  they  remembered  the 
moonlit  night  when  the  lynx  brought  blind- 
ness to  Gray  Wolf  and  destroyed  her  young, 
and  when  Kazan  had  avenged  himself  and  his 
mate  in  his  terrible  fight  to  the  death  with 
their  enemy.  And  now,  with  that  soft  little 
handful  of  life  snuggling  close  up  against  her, 
Gray  Wolf  saw  through  her  blind  eyes  the 
tragic  picture  of  that  night  more  vividly  than 
ever  and  she  quivered  at  every  sound,  ready  to 
leap  in  the  face  of  an  unseen  foe,  to  rend  all 
flesh  that  was  not  the  flesh  of  Kazan.  And 
ceaselessly,  the  slightest  sound  bringing  him 
to  his  feet,  Kazan  watched  and  guarded.  He 
mistrusted  the  moving  shadows.  The  snap- 

229 


230  KAZAN 

ping  of  a  twig  drew  back  his  upper  lip.  His 
fangs  gleamed  menacingly  when  the  soft  air 
brought  a  strange  scent.  In  him,  too,  the 
memory  of  the  Sun  Rock,  the  death  of  their 
first  young  and  the  blinding  of  Gray  Wolf, 
had  given  birth  to  a  new  instinct.  Not  for 
an  instant  was  he  off  his  guard.  As  surely  as 
one  expects  the  sun  to  rise  so  did  he  expect 
that  sooner  or  later  their  deadly  enemy  would 
creep  on  them  from  out  of  the  forest.  In 
another  hour  such  as  this  the  lynx  had  brought 
death.  The  lynx  had  brought  blindness. 
And  so  day  and  night  he  waited  and  watched 
for  the  lynx  to  come  again.  And  woe  unto 
any  other  creature  of  flesh  and  blood  that  dared 
approach  the  windfall  in  these  first  days  of 
Gray  Wolf's  motherhood! 

But  peace  had  spread  its  wings  of  sunshine 
and  plenty  over  the  swamp.  There  were  no 
intruders,  unless  the  noisy  whisky- jacks,  the 
big-eyed  moose-birds,  the  chattering  bush 
sparrows,  and  the  wood-mice  and  ermine 
could  be  called  such.  After  the  first  day  or 
two  Kazan  went  more  frequently  into  the  wind- 
fall, -and  though  more  than  once  he  nosed 
searchingly  about  Gray  Wolf  he  could  find 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE     231 

only  the  one  little  pup.  A  little  farther  west 
the  Dog-Ribs  would  have  called  the  pup  Ba-ree 
for  two  reasons — because  he  had  no  brothers 
or  sisters,  and  because  he  was  a  mixture  of 
dog  and  wolf.  He  was  a  sleek  and  lively  lit- 
tle fellow  from  the  beginning,  for  there  was 
no  division  of  mother  strength  and  attention. 
He  developed  with  the  true  swiftness  of  the 
wolf -whelp,  and  not  with  the  slowness  of  the 
dog-pup. 

For  three  days  he  was  satisfied  to  cud- 
dle close  against  his  mother,  feeding  when 
he  was  hungry,  sleeping  a  great  deal  and 
preened  and  laundered  almost  constantly  by 
Gray  Wolf's  affectionate  tongue.  From  the 
fourth  day  he  grew  busier  and  more  inquisi- 
tive with  every  hour.  He  found  his  mother's 
blind  face,  with  tremendous  effort  he  tumbled 
over  her  paws,  and  once  he  lost  himself  com- 
pletely and  sniffled  for  help  when  he  rolled  fif- 
teen or  eighteen  inches  away  from  her.  It 
was  not  long  after  this  that  he  began  to  rec- 
ognize Kazan  as  a  part  of  his  mother,  and  he 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  week  old  when  he 
rolled  himself  up  contentedly  between  Kazan's 
forelegs  and  went  to  sleep.  Kazan  was  puz- 


232  KAZAN 

zled.  Then  with  a  deep  sigh  Gray  Wolf  laid 
her  head  across  one  of  her  mate's  forelegs, 
with  her  nose  touching  her  runaway  baby,  and 
seemed  vastly  contented.  For  half  an  hour 
Kazan  did  not  move. 

When  he  was  ten  days  old  Ba-ree  discovered 
there  was  great  sport  in  tussling  with  a  bit  of 
rabbit  fur.  It  was  a  little  later  when  he  made 
his  second  exciting  discovery — light  and  sun- 
shine. The  sun  had  now  reached  a  point 
where  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  a  bright 
gleam  of  it  found  its  way  through  an  overhead 
opening  in  the  windfall.  At  first  Ba-ree 
would  only  stare  at  the  golden  streak.  Then 
came  the  time  when  he  tried  to  play  with  it 
as  he  played  with  the  rabbit  fur.  Each  day 
thereafter  he  went  a  little  nearer  the  opening 
through  which  Kazan  passed  from  the  windfall 
into  the  big  world  outside.  Finally  came  the 
time  when  he  reached  the  opening  and  crouched' 
there,  blinking  and  frightened  at  what  he  saw, 
and  now  Gray  Wolf  no  longer  tried  to  hold 
him  back  but  went  out  into  the  sunshine  and 
tried  to  call  him  to  her.  It  was  three  days  be- 
fore his  weak  eyes  had  grown  strong  enough 
to  permit  his  following  her,  and  very  quickly 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE     233 

after  that  Ba-ree  learned  to  love  the  sun,  the 
warm  air,  and  the  sweetness  of  life,  and  to 
dread  the  darkness  of  the  closed-in  den  where 
he  had  been  born. 

That  this  world  was  not  altogether  so  nice 
as  it  at  first  appeared  he  was  very  soon  to 
learn.  At  the  darkening  signs  of  an  ap- 
proaching storm  one  day  Gray  Wolf  tried  to 
lure  him  back  under  the  windfall.  It  was  her 
first  warning  to  Ba-ree  and  he  did  not  under- 
stand. Where  Gray  Wolf  failed,  nature 
came  to  teach  a  first  lesson.  Ba-ree  was 
caught  in  a  sudden  deluge  of  rain.  It  flat- 
tened him  out  in  pure  terror  and  he  was 
drenched  and  half  drowned  before  Gray  Wolf 
caught  him  between  her  jaws  and  carried  him 
into  shelter.  One  by  one  after  this  the  first 
strange  experiences  of  life  came  to  him,  and 
one  by  one  his  instincts  received  their  birth. 
Greatest  for  him  of  the  days  to  follow  was 
that  on  which  his  inquisitive  nose  touched  the 
raw  flesh  of  a  freshly  killed  and  bleeding  rab- 
bit. It  was  his  first  taste  of  blood.  It  was 
sweet.  It  filled  him  with  a  strange  excitement 
and  thereafter  he  knew  what  it  meant  when 
Kazan  brought  in  something  between  his 


234  KAZAN 

jaws.  He  joon  began  to  battle  with  sticks 
in  place  of  the  soft  fur  and  his  teeth  grew  as 
hard  and  as  sharp  as  little  needles. 

The  Great  Mystery  was  bared  to  him  at  last 
when  Kazan  brought  in  between  his  jaws,  a 
big  rabbit  that  was  still  alive  but  so  badly 
crushed  that  it  could  not  run  when  dropped 
to  the  ground.  Ba-ree  had  learned  to  know 
what  rabbits  and  partridges  meant — the  sweet 
warm  blood  that  he  loved  better  even  than  he 
had  ever  loved  his  mother's  milk.  But  they 
had  come  to  him  dead.  He  had  never  seen 
one  of  the  monsters  alive.  And  now  the  rab- 
bit that  Kazan  dropped  to  the  ground,  kick- 
ing and  struggling  with  a  broken  back,  sent 
Ba-ree  back  appalled.  For  a  few  moments 
he  wonderingly  watched  the  dying  throes  of 
Kazan's  prey.  Both  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf 
seemed  to  understand  that  this  was  to  be  Ba- 
ree's  first  lesson  in  his  education  as  a  slaying 
and  flesh-eating  creature,  and  they  stood  close 
over  the  rabbit,  making  no  effort  to  end  its 
struggles.  Half  a  dozen  times  Gray  Wolf 
sniffed  at  the  rabbit  and  then  turned  her  blind 
face  toward  Ba-ree.  After  the  third  or  fourth 
time  Kazan  stretched  himself  out  on  his  belly 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE     235 

a  few  feet  away  and  watched  the  proceedings 
attentively.  Each  time  that  Gray  Wolf 
lowered  her  head  to  muzzle  the  rabbit  Ba-ree's 
little  ears  shot  up  expectantly.  When  he 
saw  that  nothing  happened  and  that  his 
mother  was  not  hurt  he  came  a  little  nearer. 
Soon  he  could  reach  out,  stiff-legged  and 
cautious,  and  touch  the  furry  thing  that  was 
not  yet  dead. 

In  a  last  spasmodic  convulsion  the  big 
rabbit  doubled  up  its  rear  legs  and  gave 
a  kick  that  sent  Ba-ree  sprawling  back, 
yelping  in  terror.  He  regained  his  feet 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  anger  and  the 
desire  to  retaliate  took  possession  of  him.  The 
kick  had  completed  his  first  education.  He 
came  back  with  less  caution,  but  stiffer-legged, 
and  a  moment  later  had  dug  his  tiny  teeth  in 
the  rabbit's  neck.  He  could  feel  the  throb 
of  life  in  the  soft  body,  the  muscles  of  the  dying 
rabbit  twitched  convulsively  under  him,  and 
he  hung  with  his  teeth  until  there  was  no 
longer  a  tremor  of  life  in  his  first  kill. 
Gray  Wolf  was  delighted.  She  caressed  Ba- 
ree  with  her  tongue,  and  even  Kazan  con- 
descended to  sniff  approvingly  of  his 


236  KAZAN 

when  he  returned  to  the  rabbit.  And  never 
before  had  warm  sweet  blood  tasted  so  good 
to  Ba-ree  as  it  did  to-day. 

Swiftly  Ba-ree  developed  from  a  blood- 
tasting  into  a  flesh-eating  animal.  One  by 
one  the  mysteries  of  life  were  unfolded  to 
him — the  mating-night  chortle  of  the  gray 
owl,  the  crash  of  a  falling  tree,  the  roll  of 
thunder,  the  rush  of  running  water,  the  scream 
of  a  fisher-cat,  the  mooing  of  the  cow  moose, 
and  the  distant  call  of  his  tribe.  But  chief 
of  all  these  mysteries  that  were  already  becom- 
ing a  part  of  his  instinct  was  the  mystery  of 
scent.  One  day  he  wandered  fifty  yards  away 
from  the  windfall  and  his  little  nose  touched 
the  warm  scent  of  a  rabbit.  Instantly,  with- 
out reasoning  or  further  process  of  education, 
he  knew  that  to  get  at  the  sweet  flesh  and 
blood  which  he  loved  he  must  follow  the  scent. 
He  wriggled  slowly  along  the  trail  until  he 
came  to  a  big  log,  over  which  the  rabbit  had 
Vaulted  in  a  long  leap,  and  from  this  log  he 
turned  back.  ILaeh  day  after  this  he  went 
on  adventures  of  his  own.  At  first  he  was 
like  an  explorer  without  a  compass  in  a  vast 
and  unknown  world.  Each  day  he 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE     237 

countered  something  new,  always  wonderful, 
frequently  terrifying.  But  his  terrors  grew 
less  and  less  and  his  confidence  correspond- 
ingly greater.  As  he  found  that  none  of  the 
things  he  feared  did  him  any  harm  he  be- 
came more  and  more  bold  in  his  investigations. 
And  his  appearance  was  changing,  as  well  as 
his  view  of  things.  His  round  roly-poly 
body  was  taking  a  different  form.  He  be- 
came lithe  and  quick.  The  yellow  of  his  coat 
darkened,  and  there  was  a  whitish-gray  streak 
along  his  back  like  that  along  Kazan's.  He 
had  his  mother's  under-throat  and  her  beauti- 
ful grace  of  head.  Otherwise  he  was  a  true 
son  of  Kazan.  His  limbs  gave  signs  of  future 
strength  and  massiveness.  He  was  broad 
across  the  chest.  His  eyes  were  wide  apart, 
with  a  little  red  in  the  lower  corners.  The  for- 
est people  know  what  to  expect  of  husky  pups 
who  early  develop  that  drop  of  red.  It  is  a 
warning  that  they  are  born  of  the  wild  and 
that  their  mothers,  or  fathers,  are  of  the  sav- 
age hunt-packs.  In  Ba-ree  that  tinge  of  red 
was  so  pronounced  that  it  could  mean  but  one 
thing.  While  he  was  almost  half  dog,  the  wild 
had  claimed  him  forever. 


238  KAZAN 

Not  until  the  day  of  his  first  real  battle  with 
a  living  creature  did  Ba-ree  come  fully  into 
his  inheritance.  He  had  gone  farther  than 
usual  from  the  windfall — fully  a  hundred 
yards.  Here  he  found  a  new  wonder.  K 
was  the  creek.  He  had  heard  it  before  and  he 
had  looked  down  on  it  from  afar — from  a  dis- 
tance of  fifty  yards  at  least.  But  to-day 
he  ventured  going  to  the  edge  of  it,  and  there 
he  stood  for  a  long  time,  with  the  water  rip- 
pling and  singing  at  his  feet,  gazing  across  it 
into  the  new  world  that  he  saw.  Then  he 
moved  cautiously  along  the  stream.  He  had 
not  gone  a  dozen  steps  when  there  was  a 
furious  fluttering  close  to  him,  and  one  of  the 
fierce  big-eyed  jays  of  the  Northland  was 
directly  in  his  path.  It  could  not  fly.  One 
of  its  wings  dragged,  probably  broken  in  a 
struggle  with  some  one  of  the  smaller  prey- 
ing beasts.  But  for  an  instant  it  was  a 
most  startling  and  defiant  bit  of  life  to  Ba- 
ree. 

Then  the  grayish  crest  along  his  back  stiff- 
ened and  he  advanced.  The  wounded  jay 
remained  motionless  until  Ba-ree  was  within 
three  feet  of  it.  In  short  quick  hops  it  began 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE     239 

to  retreat.  Instantly  Ba-ree's  indecision  had 
flown  to  the  four  winds.  With  one  sharp  ex- 
cited yelp  he  flew  at  the  defiant  bird.  For 
/a  few  moments  there  was  a  thrilling  race,  and 
Ba-ree's  sharp  little  teeth  buried  themselves 
in  the  jay's  feathers.  Swift  as  a  flash  the 
bird's  beak  began  to  strike.  The  jay  was  the 
king  of  the  smaller  birds.  In  nesting  season 
it  killed  the  brush  sparrows,  the  mild-eyed 
moose-birds,  and  the  tree-sappers.  Again  and 
again  it  struck  Ba-ree  with  its  powerful  beak, 
but  the  son  of  Kazan  had  now  reached  the 
age  of  battle  and  the  pain  of  the  blows  only 
made  his  own  teeth  sink  deeper.  At  last  he 
found  the  flesh,  and  a  puppyish  snarl  rose  in 
his  throat.  Fortunately  he  had  gained  a 
hold  under  the  wing  and  after  the  first  dozen 
blows  the  jay's  resistance  grew  weaker. 
Five  minutes  later  Ba-ree  loosened  his  teeth 
and  drew  back  a  step  to  look  at  the  crumpled 
and  motionless  creature  before  him.  The  jay 
was  dead.  He  had  won  his  first  battle. 
And  with  victory  came  the  wonderful  dawn- 
ing of  that  greatest  instinct  of  all,  which  told 
him  that  no  longer  was  he  a  drone  in  the  mar- 
velous mechanism  of  wilderness  life — but  a 


240  KAZAN 

part  of  it  from  this  time  forth.  For  lie  had 
killed. 

Half  an  hour  later  Gray  Wolf  came  down 
over  his  trail.  The  jay  was  torn  into  bits. 
)Its  feathers  were  scattered  about  and  Ba-ree's 
little  nose  was  bloody.  Ba-ree  was  lying  in 
triumph  beside  his  victim.  Swiftly  Gray- 
Wolf  understood  and  caressed  him  joyously. 
When  they  returned  to  the  windfall  Ba- 
ree  carried  in  his  jaws  what  was  left  of  the 
jay. 

From  that  hour  of  his  first  kill  hunting  be- 
came the  chief  passion  of  Ba-ree's  life.  When 
he  was  not  sleeping  in  the  sun,  or  under  the 
windfall  at  night,  he  was  seeking  life  that  he 
could  destroy.  He  slaughtered  an  entire  fam- 
ily of  wood-mice.  Moose-birds  were  at  first 
the  easiest  for  him  to  stalk,  and  he  killed  three. 
Then  he  encountered  an  ermine  and  the  fierce 
little  white  outlaw  of  the  forests  gave  him  his 
first  defeat.  Defeat  cooled  his  ardor  for  a 
few  days,  but  taught  him  the  great  lesson  that 
there  were  other  fanged  and  flesh-eating  an- 
imals besides  himself  and  that  nature  had  so 
schemed  things  that  fang  must  not  prey  upon 
fang — for  food.  Many  things  had  been  born 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BA-REE     241 

in  him.  Instinctively  he  shunned  the  porcu- 
pine without  experiencing  the  torture  of  its 
quills.  He  came  face  to  face  with  a  fisher-cat 
one  day,  a  fortnight  after  his  fight  with  the 
ermine.  Both  were  seeking  food,  and  as  there 
m&s  no  food  between  them  to  fight  over,  each 
went  his  own  way. 

Farther  and  farther  Ba-ree  ventured  from 
the  windfall,  always  following  the  creek. 
Sometimes  he  was  gone  for  hours.  At  first 
Gray  Wolf  was  restless  when  he  was  away, 
but  she  seldom  went  with  him  and  after  a  time 
her  restlessness  left  her.  Nature  was  work- 
ing swiftly.  It  was  Kazan  who  was  restless 
now.  Moonlight  nights  had  come  and  the 
wanderlust  was  growing  more  and  more  insist- 
ent in  his  veins.  And  Gray  Wolf,  too,  was 
filled  with  the  strange  longing  to  roam  at  large 
out  into  the  big  world. 

Came  then  the  afternoon  when  Ba-ree  went 
on  his  longest  hunt.  Half  a  mile  away  he 
killed  his  first  rabbit.  He  remained  beside  it 
until  dusk.  The  moon  rose,  big  and  golden, 
flooding  the  forests  and  plains  and  ridges  with 
a  light  almost  like  that  of  day.  It  was  a 
glorious  night.  And  Ba-ree  found  the  moon, 


S42  KAZAN 

and  left  his  kill.     And  the  direction  in  which 
he  traveled  was  away  from  the  windfall. 

All  that  night  Gray  Wolf  watched  and 
waited.  And  when  at  last  the  moon  was  sink- 
ing into  the  south  and  west  she  settled  back 
on  her  haunches,  turned  her  blind  face  to  the 
sky  and  sent  forth  her  first  howl  since  the  day 
Ba-ree  was  born.  Nature  had  come  into  her 
own.  Far  away  Ba-ree  heard,  but  he  did  not 
answer.  A  new  world  was  his.  He  had  said 
good-by  to  the  windfall — and  home. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  USURPERS 

IT  was  that  glorious  season  between  spring 
and  summer,  when  the  northern  nights 
were  brilliant  with  moon  and  stars,  that  Ka- 
zan and  Gray  Wolf  set  up  the  valley  between 
the  two  ridges  on  a  long  hunt.  It  was  the  be- 
ginning of  that  wanderlust  which  always 
comes  to  the  furred  and  padded  creatures  of 
the  wilderness  immediately  after  the  young- 
born  of  early  spring  have  left  their  mothers 
to  find  their  own  way  in  the  big  world.  They 
struck  west  from  their  winter  home  under  the 
windfall  in  the  swamp.  They  hunted  mostly 
at  night  and  behind  them  they  left  a  trail 
marked  by  the  partly  eaten  carcasses  of  rabbits 
and  partridges.  It  was  the  season  of 
slaughter  and  not  of  hunger.  Ten  miles  west 
of  the  swamp  they  killed  a  fawn.  This,  too, 
they  left  after  a  single  meal.  Their  appetites 
became  satiated  with  warm  flesh  and  blood. 
They  grew  sleek  and  fat  and  each  day  they 

243 


244  KAZAN 

basked  longer  in  the  warm  sunshine.  They 
had  few  rivals.  The  lynxes  were  in  the  heavier 
timber  to  the  south.  There  were  no  wolves. 
Fisher-cat,  marten  and  mink  were  numerous 
along  the  creek,  but  these  were  neither  swift- 
hunting  nor  long-fanged.  One  day  they 
came  upon  an  old  otter.  He  was  a  giant  of 
his  kind,  turning  a  whitish  gray  with  the  ap- 
proach of  summer.  Kazan,  grown  fat  and 
lazy,  watched  him  idly.  Blind  Gray  Wolf 
sniffed  at  the  fishy  smell  of  him  in  the  air. 
To  them  he  was  no  more  than  a  floating  stick, 
a  creature  out  of  their  element,  along  with  the 
fish,  and  they  continued  on  their  way  not 
knowing  that  this  uncanny  creature  with  the 
coal-like  flappers  was  soon  to  become  their  ally 
in  one  of  the  strange  and  deadly  feuds  of  the 
wilderness,  which  are  as  sanguinary  to  animal 
life  as  the  deadliest  feuds  of  men  are  to  human 
life. 

The  day  following  their  meeting  with  the 
otter  Gray  Wolf  and  Kazan  continued  three 
miles  farther  westward,  still  following  the 
stream.  Here  they  encountered  the  interrup- 
tion to  their  progress  which  turned  them  over 
the  northward  ridge.  The  obstacle  was  a 


THE  USURPERS  245 

huge  beaver  dam.  The  dam  was  two  hundred 
yards  in  width  and  flooded  a  mile  of  swamp 
and  timber  above  it.  Neither  Gray  Wolf  nor 
Kazan  was  deeply  interested  in  beavers. 
They  also  moved  out  of  their  element,  along 
with  the  fish  and  the  otter  and  swift-winged 
birds. 

So  they  turned  into  the  north,  not  knowing 
that  nature  had  already  schemed  that  they 
four — the  dog,  wolf,  otter  and  beaver — should 
soon  be  engaged  in  one  of  those  merciless 
struggles  of  the  wild  which  keep  animal  life 
down  to  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  and  whose 
tragic  histories  are  kept  secret  under  the  stars 
and  the  moon  and  the  winds  that  tell  no  tales. 

For  many  years  no  man  had  come  into  this 
valley  between  the  two  ridges  to  molest  the 
beaver.  If  a  Sarcee  trapper  had  followed 
down  the  nameless  creek  and  had  caught  the 
patriarch  and  chief  of  the  colony,  he  would  at 
once  have  judged  him  to  be  very  old  and  his 
Indian  tongue  would  have  given  him  a  name. 
He  would  have  called  him  Broken  Tooth,  be- 
cause one  of  the  four  long  teeth  with  which 
he  felled  trees  and  built  dams  was  broken  off. 
Six  years  before  Broken  Tooth  had  led  a  few 


246  KAZAN 

beavers  of  his  own  age  down  the  stream,  and 
they  had  built  their  first  small  dam  and  their 
first  lodge.  The  following  April  Broken 
Tooth's  mate  had  four  little  baby  beavers,  and 
each  of  the  other  mothers  in  the  colony  in- 
creased the  population  by  two  or  three  or  four. 
At  the  end  of  the  fourth  year  this  first  gen- 
eration of  children,  had  they  followed  the  usual 
law  of  nature,  would  have  mated  and  left  the 
colony  to  build  a  dam  and  lodges  of  their  own. 
They  mated,  but  did  not  emigrate. 

The  next  year  the  second  generation  of 
children,  now  four  years  old,  mated  but 
did  not  leave,  so  that  in  this  early  summer 
of  the  sixth  year  the  colony  was  very  much 
like  a  great  city  that  had  been  long  besieged 
by  an  enemy.  It  numbered  fifteen  lodges 
and  over  a  hundred  beavers,  not  counting 
the  fourth  babies  which  had  been  born  during 
March  and  April.  The  dam  had  been  length- 
ened until  it  was  fully  two  hundred  yards 
in  length.  Water  had  been  made  to  flood 
large  areas  of  birch  and  poplar  and  tangled 
swamps  of  tender  willow  and  elder.  Even 
with  this  food  was  growing  scarce  and  the 
lodges  were  overcrowded.  This  was  because 


THE  USURPERS  247 

beavers  are  almost  human  in  their  love  for 
home.  Broken  Tooth's  lodge  was  fully  nine 
feet  long  by  seven  wide  inside,  and  there 
were  now  living  in  it  children  and  grandchil- 
dren to  the  number  of  twenty-seven.  For  this 
reason  Broken  Tooth  was  preparing  to  break 
the  precedent  of  his  tribe.  When  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf  sniffed  carelessly  at  the  strong 
scents  of  the  beaver  city,  Broken  Tooth  was 
marshaling-  his  family,  and  two  of  his  sons 
and  their  families,  for  the  exodus. 

As  yet  Broken  Tooth  was  the  recognized 
leader  in  the  colony.  No  other  beaver  had 
grown  to  his  size  and  strength.  His  thick 
body  was  fully  three  feet  long.  He  weighed 
at  least  sixty  pounds.  His  tail  was  fourteen 
inches  in  length  and  five  in  width,  and  on  a  still 
night  he  could  strike  the  water  a  blow  that 
could  be  heard  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  His 
webbed  hindfeet  were  twice  as  large  as  his 
mate's  and  he  was  easily  the  swiftest  swimmer 
in  the  colony. 

Following  the  afternoon  when  Gray  Wolf 
and  Kazan  struck  into  the  north  came  the 
clear  still  night  when  Broken  Tooth  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  dam,  shook  himself,  and 


248  KAZAN 

looked  down  to  see  that  his  army  was  behind 
him.  The  starlit  water  of  the  big  pond  rip- 
pled and  flashed  with  the  movement  of  many 
bodies.  A  few  of  the  older  beavers  clambered 
up  after  Broken  Tooth  and  the  old  patriarch 
plunged  down  into  the  narrow  stream  on  the 
other  side  of  the  dam.  Now  the  shining  silken 
bodies  of  the  emigrants  followed  him  in  the 
starlight.  In  ones  and  twos  and  threes  they 
climbed  over  the  dam  and  with  them  went  a 
dozen  children  born  three  months  before. 
Easily  and  swiftly  they  began  the  journey 
down-stream,  the  youngsters  swimming  fu- 
riously to  keep  up  with  their  parents.  In  all 
they  numbered  forty.  Broken  Tooth  swam 
well  in  the  lead,  with  his  older  workers  and 
battlers  behind  him.  In  the  rear  followed 
mothers  and  children. 

All  of  that  night  the  journey  continued. 
The  otter,  their  deadliest  enemy — deadlier 
even  than  man — hid  himself  in  a  thick  clump 
of  willows  as  they  passed.  Nature,  which 
sometimes  sees  beyond  the  vision  of  man,  had 
made  him  the  enemy  of  these  creatures  that 
were  passing  his  hiding-place  in  the  night.  A 
fish-feeder,  he  was  born  to  be  a  conserver  as 


THE  USURPERS  249 

well  as  a  destroyer  of  the  creatures  on  which 
he  fed.  Perhaps  nature  told  him  that  too 
many  beaver  dams  stopped  the  run  of  spawn- 
ing fish  and  that  where  there  were  many 
beavers  there  were  always  few  fish.  Maybe 
he  reasoned  as  to  why  fish-hunting  was  poor 
and  he  went  hungry.  So,  unable  to  cope 
singly  with  whole  tribes  of  his  enemies,  he 
worked  to  destroy  their  dams.  How  this,  in 
turn,  destroyed  the  beavers  will  be  seen  in  the 
feud  in  which  nature  had  already  schemed 
that  he  should  play  a  part  with  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf. 

A  dozen  times  during  this  night  Broken 
Tooth  halted  to  investigate  the  food  supplies 
along  the  banks.  But  in  the  two  or  three 
places  where  he  found  plenty  of  the  bark  on 
which  they  lived  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
have  constructed  a  dam.  His  wonderful 
engineering  instincts  rose  even  above  food  in- 
stincts. And  when  each  time  he  moved  on- 
ward, no  beaver  questioned  his  judgment  by 
remaining  behind.  In  the  early  dawn  they 
crossed  the  burn  and  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
swamp  domain  of  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf. 
By  right  of  discovery  and  possession  that 


250  KAZAN 

swamp  belonged  to  the  dog  and  the  wolf.  In 
every  part  of  it  they  had  left  their  mark  of 
ownership.  But  Broken  Tooth  was  a  crea- 
ture of  the  water  and  the  scent  of  his  tribe 
was  not  keen.  He  led  on,  traveling  more 
slowly  when  they  entered  the  timber.  Just 
below  the  windfall  home  of  Kazan  and  Gray 
Wolf  he  halted,  and  clambering  ashore  bal- 
anced himself  upright  on  his  webbed  hindfeet 
and  broad  four-pound  tail.  Here  he  had 
found  ideal  conditions.  A  dam  could  be  con- 
structed easily  across  the  narrow  stream,  and 
the  water  could  be  made  to  flood  a  big  supply 
of  poplar,  birch,  willow  and  alder.  Also  the 
place  was  sheltered  by  heavy  timber,  so  that 
the  winters  would  be  warm.  Broken  Tooth 
quickly  gave  his  followers  to  understand  that 
this  was  to  be  their  new  home.  On  both  sides 
of  the  stream  they  swarmed  into  the  near-by 
timber.  The  babies  began  at  once  to  nibble 
hungrily  at  the  tender  bark  of  willow  and 
alder.  The  older  ones,  every  one  of  them  now 
a  working  engineer,  investigated  excitedly, 
breakfasting  by  nibbling  off  a  mouthful  of 
bark  now  and  then. 

That  day  the  work  of  home-building  began. 


THE  USURPERS  251 

Broken  Tooth  himself  selected  a  big  birch 
that  leaned  over  the  stream,  and  began  the 
work  of  cutting  through  the  ten-inch  butt  with 
his  three  long  teeth.  Though  the  old  patri- 
arch had  lost  one  tooth,  the  three  that  re- 
mained had  not  deteriorated  with  age.  The 
outer  edge  of  them  was  formed  of  the  hardest 
enamel;  the  inner  side  was  of  soft  ivory. 
They  were  like  the  finest  steel  chisels,  the 
enamel  never  wearing  away  and  the  softer 
ivory  replacing  itself  year  by  year  as  it  was 
consumed.  Sitting  on  his  hindlegs,  with  his 
forepaws  resting  against  the  tree  and  with 
his  heavy  tail  giving  him  a  firm  balance, 
Broken  Tooth  began  gnawing  a  narrow  ring 
entirely  around  the  tree.  He  worked  tire- 
lessly for  several  hours,  and  when  at  last  he 
stopped  to  rest  another  workman  took  up  the 
task.  Meanwhile  a  dozen  beavers  were  hard 
at  work  cutting  timber.  Long  before  Broken 
Tooth's  tree  was  ready  to  fall  across  the 
stream,  a  smaller  poplar  crashed  into  the  water. 
The  cutting  on  the  big  birch  was  in  the  shape 
of  an  hour-glass.  In  twenty  hours  it  fell 
straight  across  the  creek.  While  the  beaver 
prefers  to  do  most  of  his  work  at  night  he  is 


252  KAZAN 

a  day-laborer  as  well,  and  Broken  Tooth  gave 
his  tribe  but  little  rest  during  the  days  that 
followed.  With  almost  human  intelligence 
the  little  engineers  kept  at  their  task.  Smaller 
trees  were  felled,  and  these  were  cut  into  four 
or  five  foot  lengths.  One  by  one  these  lengths 
were  rolled  to  the  stream,  the  beavers  push- 
ing them  with  their  heads  and  forepaws,  and 
by  means  of  brush  and  small  limbs  they  were 
fastened  securely  against  the  birch.  When 
the  framework  was  completed  the  wonderful 
cement  construction  was  begun.  In  this  the 
beavers  were  the  masters  of  men.  Dynamite 
was  the  only  force  that  could  hereafter  break 
up  what  they  were  building  now.  Under 
their  cup-like  chins  the  beavers  brought  from 
the  banks  a  mixture  of  mud  and  fine  twigs, 
carrying  from  half  a  pound  to  a  pound  at  a 
load  and  began  filling  up  the  framework  with 
it.  Their  task  seemed  tremendous,  and  yet 
Broken  Tooth's  engineers  could  carry  a  ton 
of  this  mud  and  twig  mixture  during  a  day 
and  night.  In  three  days  the  water  was  be- 
ginning to  back,  until  it  rose  about  the  butts 
of  a  dozen  or  more  trees  and  was  flooding  a 
small  area  of  brush.  This  made  work  easier; 


THE  USURPERS  253 

From  now  on  materials  could  be  cut  in  the 
water  and  easily  floated.  While  a  part  of  the 
beaver  colony  was  taking  advantage  of  the 
water,  others  were  felling  trees  end  to  end  with 
the  birch,  laying  the  working  frame  of  a  dam 
a  hundred  feet  in  width. 

They  had  nearly  accomplished  this  work 
when  one  morning  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  re- 
turned to  the  swamp. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  FEUD  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

A  SOFT  wind  blowing  from  the  south  and 
east  brought  the  scent  of  the  invaders  to 
Gray  Wolf's  nose  when  they  were  still  half 
a  mile  away.  She  gave  the  warning  to  Ka- 
zan and  he,  too,  found  the  strange  scent  in 
the  air.  It  grew  stronger  as  they  advanced. 
When  two  hundred  yards  from  the  windfall 
they  heard  the  sudden  crash  of  a  falling  tree, 
and  stopped.  For  a  full  minute  they  stood 
tense  and  listening.  Then  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  squeaking  cry,  followed  by  a 
splash.  Gray  Wolf's  alert  ears  fell  back  and 
she  turned  her  blind  face  understandingly 
toward  Kazan.  They  trotted  ahead  slowly, 
approaching  the  windfall  from  behind.  Not 
until  they  had  reached  the  top  of  the  knoll  on 
which  it  was  situated  did  Kazan  begin  to  see 
the  wonderful  change  that  had  taken  place 
during  their  absence.  Astounded,  they  stood 

while  he  stared.     There  was  no  longer  a  lit- 

•M 


A  FEUD  255 

tie  creek  below  them.  Where  it  had  been  was 
a  pond  that  reached  almost  to  the  foot  of  the 
knoll.  It  was  fully  a  hundred  feet  in  width 
and  the  backwater  had  flooded  the  trees  and 
bush  for  five  or  six  times  that  distance  toward 
the  burn.  They  had  come  up  quietly  and 
Broken  Tooth's  dull-scented  workers  were  un- 
aware of  their  presence.  Not  fifty  feet  away 
Broken  Tooth  himself  was  gnawing  at  the 
butt  of  a  tree.  An  equal  distance  to  the  right 
of  him  four  or  five  of  the  baby  beavers  were 
at  play  building  a  miniature  dam  of  mud  and 
tiny  twigs.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  pond 
was  a  steep  bank  six  or  seven  feet  high,  and 
here  a  few  of  the  older  children — two  years 
old,  but  still  not  workmen — were  having  great 
fun  climbing  the  bank  and  using  it  as  a  tobog- 
gan-slide. It  was  their  splashing  that  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf  had  heard.  In  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent places  the  older  beavers  were  at  work. 
A  few  weeks  before  Kazan  had  looked  upon 
a  similar  scene  when  he  had  returned  into  the 
north  from  Broken  Tooth's  old  home.  It  had 
not  interested  him  then.  But  a  quick  and 
thrilling  change  swept  through  him  now. 
The  beavers  had  ceased  to  be  mere  water  am- 


256  KAZAN 

mals,  uneatable  and  with  an  odor  that  dis- 
pleased him.  They  were  invaders — and  en- 
emies. His  fangs  bared  silently.  His  crest 
stiffened  like  the  hair  of  a  brush,  and  the 
muscles  of  his  forelegs  and  shoulders  stood  out 
like  whipcords.  Not  a  sound  came  from  him  as 
he  rushed  down  upon  Broken  Tooth.  The 
old  beaver  was  oblivious  of  danger  until  Ka~ 
zan  was  within  twenty  feet  of  him.  Natur- 
ally slow  of  movement  on  land,  he  stood  foi 
an  instant  stupefied.  Then  he  swung  down 
from  the  tree  as  Kazan  leaped  upon  him, 
Over  and  over  they  rolled  to  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  carried  on  by  the  dog's  momentum.  lu 
another  moment  the  thick  heavy  body  of  the 
beaver  had  slipped  like  oil  from  under  Kazan 
and  Broken  Tooth  was  safe  in  his  element, 
two  holes  bitten  clean  through  his  fleshy  tail, 
Baffled  in  his  effort  to  get  a  death-hold  on 
Broken  Tooth,  Kazan  swung  like  a  flash  to 
the  right.  The  young  beavers  had  not  moved. 
Astonished  and  frightened  at  what  they  had 
seen,  they  stood  as  if  stupefied.  Not  until 
they  saw  Kazan  tearing  toward  them  did  they 
awaken  to  action.  Three  of  them  reached  the 
water.  The  fourth  and  fifth — baby  beavers 


A  FEUD  257 

not  more  than  three  months  old — were  too 
late.  With  a  single  snap  of  his  jaw  Kazan 
broke  the  back  of  one.  The  other  he  pinned 
down  by  the  throat  and  shook  as  a  terrier  shakes 
a  rat.  When  Gray  Wolf  trotted  down  to  him 
both  of  the  little  beavers  were  dead.  She 
sniff ed  at  their  soft  little  bodies  and  whined. 
Perhaps  the  baby  creatures  reminded  her  of 
runaway  Ba-ree,  her  own  baby,  for  there  was 
a  note  of  longing  in  her  whine  as  she  nosed 
them.  It  was  the  mother  whine. 

But  if  Gray  Wolf  had  visions  of  her  own 
Kazan  understood  nothing  of  them.  He  had 
killed  two  of  the  creatures  that  had  dared  to 
invade  their  home.  To  the  little  beavers  he 
had  been  as  merciless  as  the  gray  lynx  that 
had  murdered  Gray  Wolf's  first  children  on 
the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock.  Now  that  he  had 
sunk  his  teeth  into  the  flesh  of  his  enemies  his 
blood  was  filled  with  a  frenzied  desire  to  kill, 
He  raved  along  the  edge  of  the  pond,  snarl- 
ing at  the  uneasy  water  under  which  Broken 
Tooth  had  disappeared.  All  of  the  beavers 
had  taken  refuge  in  the  pond,  and  its  surface 
was  heaving  with  the  passing  of  many  bodies 
beneath.  Kazan  came  to  the  end  of  the  dam. 


258  KAZAN 

This  was  new.  Instinctively  he  knew  that  it 
was  the  work  of  Broken  Tooth  and  his  tribe 
and  for  a  few  moments  he  tore  fiercely  at  the 
matted  sticks  and  limbs.  Suddenly  there  was 
an  upheaval  of  water  close  to  the  dam,  fifty 
feet  out  from  the  bank,  and  Broken  Tooth's 
big  gray  head  appeared.  For  a  tense  half 
minute  Broken  Tooth  and  Kazan  measured 
each  other  at  that  distance.  Then  Broken 
Tooth  drew  his  wet  shining  body  out  of  the 
water  to  the  top  of  the  dam,  and  squatted 
flat,  facing  Kazan.  The  old  patriarch  was 
alone.  Not  another  beaver  had  shown  him- 
self. 

The  surface  of  the  pond  had  now  become 
quiet.  Vainly  Kazan  tried  to  discover  a 
footing  that  would  allow  him  to  reach  the 
watchful  invader.  But  between  the  solid 
wall  of  the  dam  and  the  bank  there  was  a 
tangled  framework  through  which  the  water 
rushed  with  some  violence.  Three  times  Ka- 
zan fought  to  work  his  way  through  that 
tangle,  and  three  times  his  efforts  ended  ir. 
sudden  plunges  into  the  water.  All  this  time 
Broken  Tooth  did  not  move.  When  at  last 
Kazan  gave  up  the  attack  the  old  engineer 


A  FEUD  259 

slipped  over  the  edge  of  the  dam  and  disap- 
peared under  the  water.  He  had  learned  that 
Kazan,  like  the  lynx,  could  not  fight  water  and 
he  spread  the  news  among  the  members  of 
his  colony. 

Gray  Wolf  and  Kazan  returned  to  the  wind- 
fall and  lay  down  in  the  warm  sun.  Half  an 
hour  later  Broken  Tooth  drew  himself  out  on 
the  opposite  shore  of  the  pond.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  other  beavers.  Across  the  water 
they  resumed  their  work  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  The  tree-cutters  returned  to  their 
trees.  Half  a  dozen  worked  in  the  water, 
carrying  loads  of  cement  and  twigs.  The 
middle  of  the  pond  was  their  dead-line. 
Across  this  not  one  of  them  passed.  A  dozen 
times  during  the  hour  that  followed  one  of  the 
beavers  swam  up  to  the  dead-line,  and  rested 
there,  looking  at  the  shining  little  bodies  of 
the  babies  that  Kazan  had  killed.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  mother,  and  perhaps  some  finer  in- 
stinct unknown  to  Kazan  told  this  to  Gray 
Wolf.  For  Gray  Wolf  went  down  twice  to 
sniff  at  the  dead  bodies,  and  each  time — with- 
out seeing — she  went  when  the  mother  beaver 
had  come  to  the  dead-line. 


260  KAZAN 

The  first  fierce  animus  had  worn  itself  from 
Kazan's  blood,  and  he  now  watched  the 
beavers  closely.  He  had  learned  that  they 
were  not  fighters.  They  were  many  to  one 
and  yet  they  ran  from  him  like  a  lot  of  rab- 
bits. Broken  Tooth  had  not  even  struck  at 
him,  and  slowly  it  grew  upon  him  that  these 
invading  creatures  that  used  both  the  water 
and  land  would  have  to  be  hunted  as  he  stalked 
the  rabbit  and  the  partridge.  Early  in  the 
afternoon  he  slipped  off  into  the  bush,  fol- 
lowed by  Gray  Wolf.  He  had  often  begun 
the  stalking  of  a  rabbit  by  moving  away  from 
it  and  he  employed  this  wolf  trick  now  with 
the  beavers.  Beyond  the  windfall  he  turned 
and  began  trotting  up  the  creek,  with  the  wind. 
For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  creek  was  deeper 
than  it  had  ever  been.  One  of  their  old  ford- 
ing places  was  completely  submerged,  and  at 
last  Kazan  plunged  in  and  swam  across,  leav- 
ing Gray  Wolf  to  wait  for  him  on  the  wind- 
fall side  of  the  stream. 

Alone  he  made  his  way  quickly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  dam,  traveling  two  hundred  yards 
back  from  the  creek.  Twenty  yards  below  the 
dam  a  dense  thicket  of  alder  and  willow  grew 


A  FEUD  261 

close  to  the  creek  and  Kazan  took  advantage 
of  this.  He  approached  within  a  leap  or  two 
of  the  dam  without  being  seen  and  crouched 
close  to  the  ground,  ready  to  spring  forth 
when  the  opportunity  came.  Most  of  the 
beavers  were  now  working  in  the  water.  The 
four  or  five  still  on  shore  were  close  to  the 
water  and  some  distance  up-stream.  After  a 
wait  of  several  minutes  Kazan  was  almost  on 
the  point  of  staking  everything  on  a  wild  rush 
upon  his  enemies  when  a  movement  on  the 
dam  attracted  his  attention.  Half-way  out 
two  or  three  beavers  were  at  work  strengthen- 
ing the  centr&l  structure  with  cement.  Swift 
as  a  flash  Kazan  darted  from  his  cover  to  the 
shelter  behind  the  dam.  Here  the  water  was 
very  shallow,  the  main  portion  of  the  stream 
finding  a  passage  close  to  the  opposite  shore. 
Nowhere  did  it  reach  to  his  belly  as  he  waded 
out.  He  was  completely  hidden  from  the 
beavers,  and  the  wind  was  in  his  favor.  The 
noise  of  running  water  drowned  what  little 
sound  he  made.  Soon  he  heard  the  beaver 
workmen  over  him.  The  branches  of  the  fallen 
birch  gave  him  a  footing,  and  he  clambered  up. 
A  moment  later  his  head  and  shoulders  ap~ 


262  KAZAN 

peared  above  the  top  of  the  dam.  Scarce  an 
arm's  length  away  Broken  Tooth  was  forcing 
into  place  a  three-foot  length  of  poplar  as  big 
around  as  a  man's  arm.  He  was  so  busy  that 
he  did  not  hear  or  see  Kazan.  Another  beaver 
gave  the  warning  as  he  plunged  into  the  pond. 
Broken  Tooth  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met 
Kazan's  bared  fangs.  There  was  no  time  to 
turn.  He  threw  himself  back,  but  it  was  a 
moment  too  late.  Kazan  was  upon  him.  His 
long  fangs  sank  deep  into  Broken  Tooth's 
neck.  But  the  old  beaver  had  thrown  him- 
self enough  back  to  make  Kazan  lose  his  foot- 
ing. At  the  same  moment  his  chisel-like 
teeth  got  a  firm  hold  of  the  loose  skin  at  Ka- 
zan's throat.  Thus  clinched,  with  Kazan's 
long  teeth  buried  almost  to  the  beaver's  jugu- 
lar, they  plunged  down  into  the  deep  water  of 
the  pond. 

Broken  Tooth  weighed  sixty  pounds.  The 
instant  he  struck  the  water  he  was  in  his  ele- 
ment, and  holding  tenaciously  to  the  grip  he 
had  obtained  on  Kazan's  neck  he  sank  like  a 
chunk  of  iron.  Kazan  was  pulled  completely 
under.  The  water  rushed  into  his  mouth,  his 
ears,  eyes  and  nose.  He  was  blinded,  and  his 


A  FEUD  263 

senses  were  a  roaring  tumult.  But  instead  of 
struggling  to  free  himself  he  held  his  breath 
and  buried  his  teeth  deeper.  They  touched 
the  soft  bottom  and  for  a  moment  floundered 
in  the  mud.  Then  Kazan  loosened  his  hold. 
He  was  fighting  for  his  own  life  now — and 
not  for  Broken  Tooth's.  With  all  of  the 
strength  of  his  powerful  limbs  he  struggled  to 
break  loose — to  rise  to  the  surface,  to  fresh 
air,  to  life.  He  clamped  his  jaws  shut,  know- 
ing that  to  breathe  was  to  die.  On  land  he 
could  have  freed  himself  from  Broken  Tooth's 
hold  without  an  effort.  But  under  water  the 
old  beaver's  grip  was  more  deadly  than  would 
have  been  the  fangs  of  a  lynx  ashore.  There 
was  a  sudden  swirl  of  water  as  a  second  beaver 
circled  close  about  the  struggling  pair.  Had 
he  closed  in  with  Broken  Tooth,  Kazan's 
struggles  would  quickly  have  ceased. 

But  nature  had  not  foreseen  the  day  when 
Broken  Tooth  would  be  fighting  with  fang. 
The  old  patriarch  had  no  particular  reason  now 
for  holding  Kazan  down.  He  was  not  venge- 
ful. He  did  not  thirst  for  blood  or  death. 
Finding  that  he  was  free,  and  that  this  strange 
enemy  that  had  twice  leaped  upon  him  could 


264  KAZAN 

do  him  no  harm,  he  loosed  his  hold.  It  was 
not  a  moment  too  soon  for  Kazan.  He  was 
struggling  weakly  when  he  rose  to  the  surface 
of  the  water.  Three-quarters  drowned,  he 
succeeded  in  raising  his  forepaws  over  a 
slender  branch  that  projected  from  the  dam. 
This  gave  him  time  to  fill  his  lungs  with  air, 
and  to  cough  forth  the  water  that  had  almost 
ended  his  existence.  For  ten  minutes  he  clung 
to  the  branch  before  he  dared  attempt  the  short 
swim  ashore.  When  he  reached  the  bank  he 
dragged  himself  up  weakly.  All  the  strength 
was  gone  from  his  body.  His  limbs  shook. 
His  jaws  hung  loose.  He  was  beaten — com- 
pletely beaten.  And  a  creature  without  a  fang 
had  worsted  him.  He  felt  the  abasement  of  it. 
Drenched  and  slinking,  he  went  to  the  wind- 
fall, lay  down  in  the  sun,  and  waited  for  Gray 
Wolf. 

Days  followed  in  which  Kazan's  desire  to 
destroy  his  beaver  enemies  became  the  consum- 
ing passion  of  his  life.  Each  day  the  dam 
became  more  formidable.  Cement  work  in 
the  water  was  carried  on  by  the  beavers 
swiftly  and  safely.  The  water  in  the  pond 


A  FEUD  265 

rose  higher  each  twenty- four  hours,  and  the 
pond  grew  steadily  wider.  The  water  had 
now  been  turned  into  the  depression  that  en- 
circled the  windfall,  and  in  another  week  or 
two,  if  the  beavers  continued  their  work,  Ka- 
zan's and  Gray  Wolf's  home  would  be  noth- 
ing more  than  a  small  island  in  the  center  of  a 
wide  area  of  submerged  swamp. 

Kazan  hunted  only  for  food  now,  and  not 
for  pleasure.  Ceaselessly  he  watched  his  op- 
portunity to  leap  upon  incautious  members 
of  Broken  Tooth's  tribe.  The  third  day  after 
the  struggle  under  the  water  he  killed  a  big 
beaver  that  approached  too  close  to  the  wil- 
low thicket.  The  fifth  day  two  of  the  young 
beavers  wandered  into  the  flooded  depression 
back  of  the  windfall  and  Kazan  caught  them 
in  shallow  water  and  tore  them  into  pieces. 
After  these  successful  assaults  the  beavers  be- 
gan to  work  mostly  at  night.  This  was  to 
Kazan's  advantage,  for  he  was  a  night- 
hunter.  On  each  of  two  consecutive  nights 
he  killed  a  beaver.  Counting  the  young,  he 
had  killed  seven  when  the  otter  came. 

Never  had  Broken  Tooth  been  placed  be- 
tween two  deadlier  or  more  ferocious  enemies 


266  KAZAN 

than  the  two  that  now  assailed  him.  On 
shore  Kazan  was  his  master  because  of  his 
swiftness,  keener  scent,  and  fighting  trickery. 
In  the  water  the  otter  was  a  still  greater 
menace.  He  was  swifter  than  the  fish  that 
he  caught  for  food.  His  teeth  were  like  steel 
needles.  He  was  so  sleek  and  slippery  that 
it  would  have  been  impossible  for  them  to  hold 
him  with  their  chisel-like  teeth  could  they  have 
caught  him.  The  otter,  like  the  beaver,  pos- 
sessed no  hunger  for  blood.  Yet  in  all  the 
Northland  he  was  the  greatest  destroyer  of 
their  kind — an  even  greater  destroyer  than 
man.  He  came  and  passed  like  a  plague,  and 
it  was  in  the  coldest  days  of  winter  that  great- 
est destruction  came  with  him.  In  those  days 
he  did  not  assault  the  beavers  in  their  snug 
houses.  He  did  what  man  could  do  only  with 
dynamite — made  an  embrasure  through  their 
dam.  Swiftly  the  water  would  fall,  the  sur- 
face ice  would  crash  down,  and  the  beaver 
houses  would  be  left  out  of  water.  Then  fol- 
lowed death  for  the  beavers — starvation  and 
cold.  With  the  protecting  water  gone  from 
about  their  houses,  the  drained  pond  a  chaotic 
mass  of  broken  ice,  and  the  temperature  forty 


A  FEUD  26? 

or  fifty  degrees  below  zero,  they  would  die 
within  a  few  hours.  For  the  beaver,  with  his 
thick  coat  of  fur,  can  stand  less  cold  than  man. 
Through  all  the  long  winter  the  water  about 
his  home  is  as  necessary  to  him  as  fire  to  a 
child. 

But  it  was  summer  now  and  Broken  Tooth 
and  his  colony  had  no  very  great  fear  of  the 
otter.  It  would  cost  them  some  labor  to  re- 
pair the  damage  he  did,  but  there  was  plenty 
of  food  and  it  was  warm.  For  two  days  the 
otter  frisked  about  the  dam  and  the  deep  water 
of  the  pond.  Kazan  took  him  for  a  beaver, 
and  tried  vainly  to  stalk  him.  The  otter  re- 
garded Kazan  suspiciously  and  kept  well  out 
of  his  way.  Neither  knew  that  the  other  was 
an  ally.  Meanwhile  the  beavers  continued 
their  work  with  greater  caution.  The  water 
in  the  pond  had  now  risen  to  a  point  where  the 
engineers  had  begun  the  construction  of  three 
lodges.  On  the  third  day  the  destructive  in- 
stinct of  the  otter  began  its  work.  He  began 
to  examine  the  dam,  close  down  to  the  founda- 
tion. It  was  not  long  before  he  found  a  weak 
spot  to  begin  work  on,  and  with  his  sharp 
teeth  and  small  bullet-like  head  he  commenced 


268  KAZAN 

his  drilling  operations.  Inch  by  inch  he 
worked  his  way  through  the  dam,  burrowing 
and  gnawing  over  and  under  the  timbers,  and 
always  through  the  cement.  The  round  hole 
he  made  was  fully  seven  inches  in  diameter. 
In  six  hours  he  had  cut  it  through  the  five-foot 
base  of  the  dam. 

A  torrent  of  water  began  to  rush  from  the 
pond  as  if  forced  out  by  a  hydraulic  pump. 
Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  were  hiding  in  the  wil- 
lows on  the  south  side  of  the  pond  when  this 
happened.  They  heard  the  roar  of  the  stream 
tearing  through  the  embrasure  and  Kazan  saw 
the  otter  crawl  up  to  the  top  of  the  dam  and 
shake  himself  like  a  huge  water-rat.  Within 
thirty  minutes  the  water  in  the  pond  had  fallen 
perceptibly,  and  the  force  of  the  water  pour- 
ing through  the  hole  was  constantly  increas- 
ing the  outlet.  In  another  half  hour  the 
foundations  of  the  three  lodges,  which  had 
been  laid  in  about  ten  inches  of  water,  stood 
on  mud.  Not  until  Broken  Tooth  discovered 
that  the  water  was  receding  from  the  houses 
did  he  take  alarm.  He  was  thrown  into  a 
panic,  and  very  soon  every  beaver  in  the  colony 
was  tearing  excitedly  about  the  pond.  They 


A  FEUD  269 

swam  swiftly  from  shore  to  shore,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  dead-line  now.  Broken  Tooth 
and  the  older  workmen  made  for  the  dam, 
and  with  a  snarling  cry  the  otter  plunged 
down  among  them  and  out  like  a  flash  for  the 
creek  above  the  pond.  Swiftly  the  water  con- 
tinued to  fall  and  as  it  fell  the  excitement  of 
the  beavers  increased.  They  forgot  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf. 

Several  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
colony  drew  themselves  ashore  on  the  wind- 
fall side  of  the  pond,  and  whining  softly 
Kazan  was  about  to  slip  back  through  the 
willows  when  one  of  the  older  beavers  wad- 
dled up  through  the  deepening  mud  close  on 
his  ambush.  In  two  leaps  Kazan  was  upon 
him,  with  Gray  Wolf  a  leap  behind  him.  The 
short  fierce  struggle  in  the  mud  was  seen  by 
the  other  beavers  and  they  crossed  swiftly  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  pond.  The  water  had 
receded  to  a  half  of  its  greatest  width  before 
Broken  Tooth  and  his  workmen  discovered 
the  breach  in  the  wall  of  the  dam.  The  work 
of  repair  was  begun  at  once.  For  this  work 
sticks  and  brush  of  considerable  size  were 
necessary,  and  to  reach  this  material  the 


270  KAZAN 

beavers  were  compelled  to  drag  their  heavy 
bodies  through  the  ten  or  fifteen  yards  of  soft 
mud  left  by  the  falling  water.  Peril  of  fang 
no  longer  kept  them  back.  Instinct  told  them 
that  they  were  fighting  for  their  existence — 
that  if  the  embrasure  were  not  filled  up  and 
the  water  kept  in  the  pond  they  would  very 
soon  be  completely  exposed  to  their  enemies. 
It  was  a  day  of  slaughter  for  Gray  Wolf  and 
Kazan.  They  killed  two  more  beavers  in  the 
mud  close  to  the  willows.  Then  they  crossed 
the  creek  below  the  dam  and  cut  off  three 
beavers  in  the  depression  behind  the  windfall. 
There  was  no  escape  for  these  three.  They 
were  torn  into  pieces.  Farther  up  the  creek 
Kazan  caught  a  young  beaver  and  killed  it. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  slaughter  ended. 
Broken  Tooth  and  his  courageous  engineers 
had  at  last  repaired  the  breach,  and  the  water 
in  the  pond  began  to  rise. 

Half  a  mile  up  the  creek  the  big  otter  was 
squatted  on  a  log  basking  in  the  last  glow  of 
the  setting  sun.  To-morrow  he  would  go  and 
do  over  again  his  work  of  destruction.  That 
was  his  method.  For  him  it  was  play. 


A  FEUD  271 

But  that  strange  and  unseen  arbiter  of  the 
forests  called  O-ee-ki,  "the  Spirit,"  by  those 
who  speak  the  wild  tongue,  looked  down  at 
last  with  mercy  upon  Broken  Tooth  and  his 
death-stricken  tribe.  For  in  that  last  glow  of 
sunset  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  slipped 
stealthily  up  the  creek — to  find  the  otter 
basking  half  asleep  on  the  log. 

The  day's  work,  a  full  stomach,  and  the 
pool  of  warm  sunlight  in  which  he  lay  had  all 
combined  to  make  the  otter  sleepy.  He  was  as 
motionless  as  the  log  on  which  he  had  stretched 
himself.  He  was  big  and  gray  and  old.  For 
ten  years  he  had  lived  to  prove  his  cunning 
superior  to  that  of  man.  Vainly  traps  had 
been  set  for  him.  Wily  trappers  had  built 
narrow  sluice-ways  of  rock  and  tree  in  small 
streams  for  him,  but  the  old  otter  had  foiled 
their  cunning  and  escaped  the  steel  jaws  wait- 
ing at  the  lower  end  of  each  sluice.  The  trail 
he  left  in  soft  mud  told  of  his  size.  A  few 
trappers  had  seen  him.  His  soft  pelt  would 
long  ago  have  found  its  way  to  London,  Paris 
or  Berlin  had  it  not  been  for  his  cunning.  He 
was  fit  for  a  princess,  a  duke  or  an  emperor, 


272  KAZAN 

For  ten  years  he  had  lived  and  escaped  the 
demands  of  the  rich. 

But  this  was  summer.  No  trapper  would 
have  killed  him  now,  for  his  pelt  was  worth- 
less. Nature  and  instinct  both  told  him  this. 
At  this  season  he  did  not  dread  man,  for  there 
was  no  man  to  dread.  So  he  lay  asleep  on  the 
log,  oblivious  to  everything  but  the  comfort 
of  sleep  and  the  warmth  of  the  sun. 

Soft-footed,  searching  still  for  signs  of  the 
furry  enemies  who  had  invaded  their  domain, 
Kazan  slipped  along  the  creek.  Gray  Wolf 
ran  close  at  his  shoulder.  They  made  no 
sound,  and  the  wind  was  in  their  favor — bring- 
ing scents  toward  them.  It  brought  the  otter 
smell.  To  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  it  was  the 
scent  of  a  water  animal,  rank  and  fishy,  and 
they  took  it  for  the  beaver.  They  advanced 
still  more  cautiously.  Then  Kazan  saw  the 
big  otter  asleep  on  the  log  and  he  gave  the 
warning  to  Gray  Wolf.  She  stopped,  stand- 
ing with  her  head  thrown  up,  while  Kazan 
made  his  stealthy  advance.  The  otter  stirred 
uneasily.  It  was  growing  dusk.  The  golden 
pool  of  sunlight  had  faded  away.  Back  in 
the  darkening  timber  an  owl  greeted  night 


A  FEUD 

with  its  first  low  call.  The  otter  breathed 
deeply.  His  whiskered  muzzle  twitched, 
He  was  awakening — stirring — when  Kazan 
leaped  upon  him.  Face  to  face,  in  fair  fight, 
the  old  otter  could  have  given  a  good  account 
of  himself.  But  there  was  no  chance  now. 
The  wild  itself  had  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
become  his  deadliest  enemy.  It  was  not  man 
now — but  O-ee-ki,  "the  Spirit,"  that  had  laid 
its  hand  upon  him.  And  from  the  Spirit  there 
was  no  escape.  Kazan's  fangs  sank  into  his 
soft  jugular.  Perhaps  he  died  without  know- 
ing what  it  was  that  had  leaped  upon  him. 
For  he  died — quickly,  and  Kazan  and  Gray 
Wolf  went  on  their  way,  hunting  still  for 
enemies  to  slaughter,  and  not  knowing  that 
in  the  otter  they  had  killed  the  one  ally  who 
would  have  driven  the  beavers  from  their 
swamp  home. 

The  days  that  followed  grew  more  and  more 
hopeless  for  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf.  With 
the  otter  gone  Broken  Tooth  and  his  tribe  held 
the  winning  hand.  Each  day  the  water 
backed  a  little  farther  into  the  depression  sur- 
rounding the  windfall.  By  the  middle  of  July 
only  a  narrow  strip  of  land  connected  the 


274.  KAZAN 

windfall  hummock  with  the  dry  land  of  the 
swamp.  In  deep  water  the  beavers  now 
worked  unmolested.  Inch  by  inch  the  water 
rose,  until  there  came  the  day  when  it  began 
to  overflow  the  connecting  strip.  For  the  last 
time  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  passed  from  their 
windfall  home  and  traveled  up  the  stream  be- 
tween the  two  ridges.  The  creek  held  a  new 
meaning  for  them  now  and  as  they  traveled 
they  sniffed  its  odors  and  listened  to  its 
sounds  with  an  interest  they  had  never  known 
before.  It  was  an  interest  mingled  a  little 
with  fear,  for  something  in  the  manner  in 
which  the  beavers  had  beaten  them  reminded 
Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  of  man.  And  that 
night,  when  in  the  radiance  of  the  big  white 
moon  they  came  within  scent  of  the  beaver 
colony  that  Broken  Tooth  had  left,  they  turned 
quickly  northward  into  the  plains.  Thus  had 
brave  old  Broken  Tooth  taught  them  to  re- 
spect the  flesh  and  blood  and  handiwork  of 
his  tribe. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  SHOT   ON   THE   SAND-BAR 

JULY  and  August  of  1911  were  months 
of  great  fires  in  the  Northland.  The 
swamp  home  of  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf,  and 
the  green  valley  between  the  two  ridges,  had 
escaped  the  seas  of  devastating  flame;  but 
now,  as  they  set  forth  on  their  wandering  ad- 
ventures again,  it  was  not  long  before  their 
padded  feet  came  in  contact  with  the  seared 
and  blackened  desolation  that  had  followed  so 
closely  after  the  plague  and  starvation  of  the 
preceding  winter.  In  his  humiliation  and  de- 
feat, after  being  driven  from  his  swamp  home 
by  the  beavers,  Kazan  led  his  blind  mate  first 
into  the  south.  Twenty  miles  beyond  the  ridge 
they  struck  the  fire-killed  forests.  Winds 
from  Hudson's  Bay  had  driven  the  flames  in 
an  unbroken  sea  into  the  west,  and  they  had 
left  not  a  vestige  of  life  or  a  patch  of  green. 
Blind  Gray  Wolf  could  not  see  the  blackened 
world,  buf  she  sensed  it.  It  recalled  to  her 

815 


276  KAZAN 

memory  of  that  other  fire,  after  the  battle  on 
the  Sun  Rock;  and  all  of  her  wonderful  in- 
stincts, sharpened  and  developed  by  her  blind- 
ness, told  her  that  to  the  north — and  not 
south — lay  the  hunting-grounds  they  were 
seeking.  The  strain  of  dog  that  was  in  Ka- 
zan still  pulled  him  south.  It  was  not  be-, 
cause  he  sought  man,  for  to  man  he  had  now 
become  as  deadly  an  enemy  as  Gray  Wolf 
herself.  It  was  simply  dog  instinct  to  travel 
southward;  in  the  face  of  fire  it  was  wolf  in- 
stinct to  travel  northward.  At  the  end  of  the 
third  day  Gray  Wolf  won.  They  recrossed 
the  little  valley  between  the  two  ridges,  and 
swung  north  and  west  into  the  Athabasca 
country,  striking  a  course  that  would  ulti- 
mately bring  them  to  the  headwaters  of  the 
McFarlane  River. 

Late  in  the  preceding  autumn  a  prospector 
had  come  up  to  Fort  Smith,  on  the  Slave 
River,  with  a  pickle  bottle  filled  with  gold 
dust  and  nuggets.  He  had  made  the  find  on 
the  McFarlane.  The  first  mails  had  taken  the 
news  to  the  outside  world,  and  by  midwinter 
the  earliest  members  of  a  treasure-hunting 
horde  were  rushing  into  the  country  by  snow- 


A  SHOT  ON  THE  SAND-BAR     277 

shoe  and  dog-sledge.  Other  finds  came  thick 
and  fast.  The  McFarlane  was  rich  in  free 
gold,  and  miners  by  the  score  staked  out  their 
claims  along  it  and  began  work.  Late- 
comers swung  to  new  fields  farther  north 
and  east,  and  to  Fort  Smith  came  rumors  of 
"finds"  richer  than  those  of  the  Yukon.  A 
score  of  men  at  first — then  a  hundred,  five 
hundred,  a  thousand — rushed  into  the  new 
country.  Most  of  these  were  from  the  prairie 
countries  to  the  south,  and  from  the  placer 
beds  of  the  Saskatchewan  and  the  Frazer. 
From  the  far  North,  traveling  by  way  of  the 
Mackenzie  and  the  Liard,  came  a  smaller 
number  of  seasoned  prospectors  and  adven- 
turers from  the  Yukon — men  who  knew  what 
it  meant  to  starve  and  freeze  and  die  by  inches. 
One  of  these  late  comers  was  Sandy  Mc- 
Trigger.  There  were  several  reasons  why 
Sandy  had  left  the  Yukon.  He  was  "in  bad" 
with  the  police  who  patrolled  the  country  west 
of  Dawson,  and  he  was  "broke."  In  spite  of 
these  facts  he  was  one  of  the  best  prospectors 
that  had  ever  followed  the  shores  of  the  Klon- 
dike. He  had  made  discoveries  running  up 
to  a  million  or  two,  and  had  promptly  lost 


278  KAZAN 

them  through  gambling  and  drink.  He  had 
no  conscience,  and  little  fear.  Brutality  was 
the  chief  thing  written  in  his  face.  His  un- 
dershot jaw,  his  wide  eyes,  low  forehead  and 
grizzly  mop  of  red  hair  proclaimed  him  at 
once  as  a  man  not  to  be  trusted  beyond  one's 
own  vision  or  the  reach  of  a  bullet.  It  was 
suspected  that  he  had  killed  a  couple  of  men, 
and  robbed  others,  but  as  yet  the  police  had 
failed  to  get  anything  "on"  him.  But  along 
with  this  bad  side  of  him,  Sandy  McTrigger 
possessed  a  coolness  and  a  courage  which  even 
his  worst  enemies  could  not  but  admire,  and 
also  certain  mental  depths  which  his  unpleas- 
ant features  did  not  proclaim. 

Inside  of  six  months  Red  Gold  City  had 
sprung  up  on  the  McFarlane,  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  Fort  Smith,  and  Fort  Smith 
was  five  hundred  miles  from  civilization. 
When  Sandy  came  he  looked  over  the  crude  col- 
lection of  shacks,  gambling  houses  and  saloons 
in  the  new  town,  and  made  up  his  mind  that 
the  time  was  not  ripe  for  any  of  his  "inside" 
schemes  just  yet.  He  gambled  a  little,  and 
won  sufficient  to  buy  himself  grub  and  half 
an  outfit.  A  feature  of  this  outfit  was  an  old 


A  SHOT  ON  THE  SAND-BAR     279 

muzzle-loading  rifle.  Sandy,  who  always  car- 
ried the  latest  Savage  on  the  market,  laughed 
at  it.  But  it  was  the  best  his  finances  would 
allow  of.  He  started  south — up  the  McFar- 
lane.  Beyond  a  certain  point  on  the  river 
prospectors  had  found  no  gold.  Sandy 
pushed  confidently  beyond  this  point.  Not 
until  he  was  in  new  country  did  he  begin  his 
search.  Slowly  he  worked  his  way  up  a  small 
tributary  whose  headwaters  were  fifty  or  sixty 
miles  to  the  south  and  east.  Here  and  there 
he  found  fairly  good  placer  gold.  He  might 
have  panned  six  or  eight  dollars'  worth  a  day. 
With  this  much  he  was  disgusted.  Week 
after  week  he  continued  to  work  his  way  up- 
stream, and  the  farther  he  went  the  poorer  his 
pans  became.  At  last  only  occasionally  did 
he  find  colors.  After  such  disgusting  weeks 
as  these  Sandy  was  dangerous — when  in  the 
company  of  others.  Alone  he  was  harmless, 
One  afternoon  he  ran  his  canoe  ashore  on 
a  white  strip  of  sand.  This  was  at  a  bend, 
where  the  stream  had  widened,  and  gave  prom- 
ise of  at  least  a  few  colors.  He  had  bent  down 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  water  when  something 
caught  his  attention  on  the  wet  sand.  What/ 


280  KAZAN 

he  saw  were  the  footprints  of  animals.  Two 
had  come  down  to  drink.  They  had  stood 
side  by  side.  And  the  footprints  were  fresh — 
made  not  more  than  an  hour  or  two  before. 
A  gleam  of  interest  shot  into  Sandy's  eyes. 
He  looked  behind  him,  and  up  and  down  the 
stream. 

"Wolves,"  he  grunted.     "Wish  I  could  'a 
shot  at  'em  with  that  old  minute-gun  back 
there.     Gawd — listen  to  that!    And  in  broad 
daylight,  too!" 

He  jumped  to  his  feet,  staring  off  into  the 
oush. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  Gray  Wolf  had 
caught  the  dreaded  scent  of  man  in  the  wind, 
and  was  giving  voice  to  her  warning.  It  was 
a  long  wailing  howl,  and  not  until  its  last 
echoes  had  died  away  did  Sandy  McTrigger 
move.  Then  he  returned  to  the  canoe,  took 
out  his  old  gun,  put  a  fresh  cap  on  the  nipple 
and  disappeared  quickly  over  the  edge  of  the 
bank. 

For  a  week  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  had 
been  wandering  about  the  headwaters  of  the 
McFarlane  and  this  was  the  first  time  since 
the  preceding  winter  that  Gray  Wolf  had 


A  SHOT  ON  THE  SAND-BAR     281 

caught  the  scent  of  man  in  the  air.  When 
the  wind  brought  the  danger-signal  to  her  she 
was  alone.  Two  or  three  minutes  before  the 
scent  came  to  her  Kazan  had  left  her  side  in 
swift  pursuit  of  a  snow-shoe  rabbit,  and  she 
lay  flat  on  her  belly  under  a  bush,  waiting 
for  him.  In  these  moments  when  she  was 
alone  Gray  Wolf  was  constantly  sniffing  the 
air.  Blindness  had  developed  her  scent  and 
hearing  until  they  were  next  to  infallible. 
First  she  had  heard  the  rattle  of  Sandy  Mc- 
Trigger's  paddle  against  the  side  of  his  canoe 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Scent  had  followed 
swiftly.  Five  minutes  after  her  warning  howl 
Kazan  stood  at  her  side,  his  head  flung  up, 
his  jaws  open  and  panting.  Sandy  had  hunted 
Arctic  foxes,  and  he  was  using  the  Eskimo 
tactics  now,  swinging  in  a  half -circle  until  he 
should  come  up  in  the  face  of  the  wind.  Ka- 
zan caught  a  single  whiff  of  the  man-tainted 
air  and  his  spine  grew  stiff.  But  blind  Gray 
Wolf  was  keener  than  the  little  red-eyed  fox 
of  the  North.  Her  pointed  nose  slowly  fol- 
lowed Sandy's  progress.  She  heard  a  dry 
stick  crack  under  his  feet  three  hundred  yards 
away.  She  cauerht  the  metallic  click  of  his 


282  KAZAN 

gun-barrel  as  it  struck  a  birch  sapling.  The 
moment  she  lost  Sandy  in  the  wind  she  whined 
and  rubbed  herself  against  Kazan  and  trotted 
a  few  steps  to  the  southwest. 

At  times  such  as  this  Kazan  seldom  refused 
to  take  guidance  from  her.  They  trotted  away 
side  by  side  and  by  the  time  Sandy  was  creeping 
up  snake-like  with  the  wind  in  his  face,  Kazan 
was  peering  from  the  fringe  of  river  brush 
down  upon  the  canoe  on  the  white  strip  of 
sand.  When  Sandy  returned,  after  an  hour 
of  futile  stalking,  two  fresh  tracks  led  straight 
down  to  the  canoe.  He  looked  at  them  in 
amazement  and  then  a  sinister  grin  wrinkled 
his  ugly  face.  He  chuckled  as  he  went  to  his 
kit  and  dug  out  a  small  rubber  bag.  From 
this  he  drew  a  tightly  corked  bottle,  filled  with 
gelatine  capsules.  In  each  little  capsule  were 
five  grains  of  strychnine.  There  were  dark 
hints  that  once  upon  a  time  Sandy  McTrigger 
had  tried  one  of  these  capsules  by  dropping  it 
in  a  cup  of  coffee  and  giving  it  to  a  man,  but 
the  police  had  never  proved  it.  He  was  ex- 
pert in  the  use  of  poison.  Probably  he  had 
killed  a  thousand  foxes  in  his  time,  and  he 
chuckled  again  as  he  counted  out  a  dozen  of  the 


A  SHOT  ON  THE  SAND-BAR     283 

capsules  and  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  to 
get  this  inquisitive  pair  of  wolves.  Two  or 
three  days  before  he  had  killed  a  caribou,  and 
each  of  the  capsules  he  now  rolled  up  in  a  little 
ball  of  deer  fat,  doing  the  work  with  short 
sticks  in  place  of  his  fingers,  so  that  there 
would  be  no  man-smell  clinging  to  the  death- 
baits.  Before  sundown  Sandy  set  out  at 
right-angles  over  the  plain,  planting  the  baits. 
Most  of  them  he  hung  to  low  bushes.  Others 
he  dropped  in  worn  rabbit  and  caribou  trails. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  creek  and  cooked  his 
supper. 

Then  next  morning  he  was  up  early,  and  off 
to  the  poison  baits.  The  first  bait  was  un- 
touched. The  second  was  as  he  had  planted 
it.  The  third  was  gone.  A  thrill  shot 
through  Sandy  as  he  looked  about  him. 
Somewhere  within  a  radius  of  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  he  would  find  his  game.  Then 
his  glance  fell  to  the  ground  under  the  bush 
where  he  had  hung  the  poison  capsule  and  an 
oath  broke  from  his  lips.  The  bait  had  not 
been  eaten.  The  caribou  fat  lay  scattered  un- 
der the  bush  and  still  imbedded  in  the  largest 
portion  of  it  was  the  little  white  capsule — un- 


284  KAZAX 

broken.  It  was  Sandy's  first  experience  with 
a  wild  creature  whose  instincts  were  sharpened 
by  blindness,  and  he  was  puzzled.  He  had 
never  known  this  to  happen  before.  If  a  fox 
or  a  wolf  could  be  lured  to  the  point  of  touch« 
ing  a  bait,  it  followed  that  the  bait  was  eaten. 
Sandy  went  on  to  the  fourth  and  the  fifth 
baits.  They  were  untouched.  The  sixth  was 
torn  to  pieces,  like  the  third.  In  this  instance 
the  capsule  was  broken  and  the  white  powder 
scattered.  Two  more  poison  baits  Sandy 
found  pulled  down  in  this  manner.  He  knew 
that  Kazan  and  Gray  Wolf  had  done  the  work, 
for  he  found  the  marks  of  their  feet  in  a  dozen 
different  places.  The  accumulated  bad  humor 
of  weeks  of  futile  labor  found  vent  in  his  dis- 
appointment and  anger.  At  last  he  had 
found  something  tangible  to  curse.  The  fail- 
ure of  his  poison  baits  he  accepted  as  a  sort  of 
climax  to  his  general  bad  luck.  Everything 
was  against  him,  he  believed,  and  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  return  to  Red  Gold  City.  Early 
in  the  afternoon  he  launched  his  canoe  and 
drifted  down-stream  with  the  current.  He 
was  content  to  let  the  current  do  all  of  the  work 
to-day,  and  he  used  his  paddle  just  enough  to 


A  SHOT  ON  THE  SAND-BAR     285 

keep  his  slender  craft  head  on.  He  leaned 
back  comfortably  and  smoked  his  pipe,  with 
the  old  rifle  between  his  knees.  The  wind  was 
in  his  face  and  he  kept  a  sharp  watch  for 
game. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Kazan 
and  Gray  Wolf  came  out  on  a  sand-bar  five 
or  six  miles  down-stream.  Kazan  was  lap- 
ping up  the  cool  water  when  Sandy  drifted 
quietly  around  a  bend  a  hundred  yards  above 
them.  If  the  wind  had  been  right,  or  if 
Sandy  had  been  using  his  paddle,  Gray  Wolf 
would  have  detected  danger.  It  was  the 
metallic  click-click  of  the  old-fashioned  lock 
of  Sandy's  rifle  that  awakened  her  to  a  sense 
of  peril.  Instantly  she  was  thrilled  by  the 
nearness  of  it.  Kazan  heard  the  sound  and 
stopped  drinking  to  face  it.  In  that  moment 
Sandy  pressed  the  trigger.  A  belch  of  smoke, 
a  roar  of  gunpowder,  and  Kazan  felt  a  red- 
hot  stream  of  fire  pass  with  the  *swif tness  of 
a  lightning-flash  through  his  brain.  He 
stumbled  back,  his  legs  gave  way  under  him, 
and  he  crumpled  down  in  a  limp  heap.  Gray 
Wolf  darted  like  a  streak  off  into  the  bush. 
Blind,  she  had  not  seen  Kazan  wilt  down  upon 


286  KAZAN 

the  white  sand.  Not  until  she  was  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away  from  the  terrifying  thunder  of 
the  white  man's  rifle  did  she  stop  and  wait 
for  him. 

Sandy  McTrigger  grounded  his  canoe  OB 
the  sand-bar  with  an  exultant  yell. 

"Got  you,  you  old  devil,  didn't  I?"  he  cried. 
"I'd  'a'  got  the  other,  too,  if  I'd  'a'  had  some- 
thing besides  this  damned  old  relic!" 

He  turned  Kazan's  head  over  with  the  butt 
of  Ms  gun,  and  the  leer  of  satisfaction  in  his 
face  gave  place  to  a  sudden  look  of  amaze- 
ment. For  the  first  time  he  saw  the  collar 
about  Kazan's  neck. 

"My  Gawd,  it  ain't  a  wolf,"  he  gasped. 
"It's  a  dog,  Sandy  McTrigger — a  dog!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SANDY'S  METHOD 

McTRIGGER  dropped  on  his  knees  in 
the  sand.  The  look  of  exultation  was 
gone  from  his  face.  He  twisted  the  col- 
lar about  the  dog's  limp  neck  until  he  came 
to  the  worn  plate,  on  which  he  could  make 
out  the  faintly  engraved  letters  K-a-z-a-n. 
He  spelled  the  letters  out  one  by  one,  and  the 
look  in  his  face  was  of  one  who  still  disbe- 
lieved what  he  had  seen  and  heard. 

"A  dog!"  he  exclaimed  again.  "A  dog, 
Sandy  McTrigger  an'  a — a  beauty!" 

He  rose  to  hi?  feet  and  looked  down  on  his 
victim.  A  pcol  of  blood  lay  in  the  white  sand 
at  the  end  of  Kazan's  nose.  After  a  moment 
Sandy  bent  over  to  see  where  his  bullet  had 
struck.  His  inspection  filled  him  with  a  new; 
and  greater  interest.  The  heavy  ball  from  the 
muzzle-loader  had  struck  Kazan  fairly  on  top 
of  the  head.  It  was  a  glancing  blow  that  had 
not  even  broken  the  skull,  and  like  a  flash 

,887 


288  KAZAN 

Sandy  understood  the  quivering  and  twitch- 
ing of  Kazan's  shoulders  and  legs.  He  had 
thought  that  they  were  the  last  muscular  throes 
of  death.  But  Kazan  was  not  dying.  He 
was  only  stunned,  and  would  he  on  his  feet 
again  in  a  few  minutes.  Sandy  was  a  con- 
noisseur of  dogs — of  dogs  that  had  worn 
sledge  traces.  He  had  lived  among  them 
two-thirds  of  his  life.  He  could  tell  their 
age,  their  value,  and  a  part  of  their  history 
at  a  glance.  In  the  snow  he  could  tell  the  trail 
of  a  Mackenzie  hound  from  that  of  a  Male- 
mute,  and  the  track  of  an  Eskimo  dog  from 
that  of  a  Yukon  husky.  He  looked  at  Ka- 
zan's feet.  They  were  wolf  feet,  and  he 
chuckled.  Kazan  was  part  wild.  He  was  big 
and  powerful,  and  Sandy  thought  of  the  com- 
ing winter,  and  of  the  high  prices  that  dogs 
would  bring  at  Red  Gold  City.  He  went  to 
the  canoe  and  returned  with  a  roll  of  stout 
moose-hide  babiche.  Then  he  sat  down  cross- 
legged  in  front  of  Kazan  and  began  making 
a  muzzle.  He  did  this  by  plaiting  babiche 
thongs  in  the  same  manner  that  one  does  in 
making  the  web  of  a  snow-shoe.  In  ten 
minutes  he  had  the  muzzle  over  Kazan's  nose 


SANDY'S  METHOD  289! 

and  fastened  securely  about  his  neck.  To  the 
dog's  collar  he  then  fastened  a  ten-foot  rope 
of  babiche.  After  that  he  sat  back  and 
waited  for  Kazan  to  come  to  life. 

When  Kazan  first  lifted  his  head  he  could 
not  see.  There  was  a  red  film  before  his  eyes. 
But  this  passed  away  swiftly  and  he  saw  the 
man.  His  first  instinct  was  to  rise  to  his  feet. 
Three  times  he  fell  back  before  he  could  stand 
up.  Sandy  was  squatted  six  feet  from  him, 
holding  the  end  of  the  babiche,  and  grinning. 
Kazan's  fangs  gleamed  back.  He  growled, 
and  the  crest  along  his  spine  rose  menacingly. 
Sandy  jumped  to  his  feet. 

* 'Guess  I  know  what  you're  figgering  on/" 
he  said.  "I've  had  your  kind  before.  The 
dam'  wolves  have  turned  you  bad,  an'  you'll 
need  a  whole  lot  of  club  before  you're  right 
again.  Now,  look  here." 

Sandy  had  taken  the  precaution  of  bringing 
a  thick  club  along  with  the  babiche.  He 
picked  it  up  from  where  he  had  dropped  it 
in  the  sand.  Kazan's  strength  had  fairly  re- 
turned to  him  now.  He  was  no  longer  dizzy. 
The  mist  had  cleared  away  from  his  eyes.  Be- 
fore him  he  saw  once  more  his  old  enemy,  man 


g90  KAZAN 

— man  and  the  club.  All  of  the  wild  ferocity 
of  his  nature  was  roused  in  an  instant.  With- 
out reasoning  he  knew  that  Gray  Wolf  was 
gone,  and  that  this  man  was  accountable  for 
her  going.  He  knew  that  this  man  had  also 
brought  him  his  own  hurt,  and  what  he 
ascribed  to  the  man  he  also  attributed  to  the 
club.  In  his  newer  undertaking  of  things* 
born  of  freedom  and  Gray  Wolf,  Man  and 
Club  were  one  and  inseparable.  With  a  snarl 
he  leaped  at  Sandy.  The  man  was  not  ex- 
pecting a  direct  assault,  and  before  he  could 
raise  his  club  or  spring  aside  Kazan  had 
landed  full  on  his  chest.  The  muzzle  about 
Kazan's  jaws  saved  him.  Fangs  that  would 
have  torn  his  throat  open  snapped  harmlessly. 
Under  the  weight  of  the  dog's  body  he  fell 
back,  as  if  struck  down  by  a  catapult. 

As  quick  as  a  cat  he  was  on  his  feet  agains 
with  the  end  of  the  babiche  twisted  several 
times  about  his  hand.  Kazan  leaped  again, 
and  this  time  he  was  met  by  a  furious  swing 
of  the  club.  It  smashed  against  his  shoulder, 
and  sent  him  down  in  the  sand.  Before  he 
could  recover  Sandy  was  upon  him,  with  all 
the  fury  of  a  man  gone  mad.  He  shortened 


SANDY'S  METHOD  291 

the  babiche  by  twisting  it  again  and  again 
about  his  hand,  and  the  club  rose  and  fell 
with  the  skill  and  strength  of  one  long  ac- 
customed to  its  use.  The  first  blows  served 
only  to  add  to  Kazan's  hatred  of  man,  and  the 
ferocity  and  fearlessness  of  his  attacks. 
Again  and  again  he  leaped  in,  and  each  time 
the  club  fell  upon  him  with  a  force  that 
threatened  to  break  his  bones.  There  was  a 
tense  hard  look  about  Sandy's  cruel  mouth. 
He  had  never  known  a  dog  like  this  before, 
and  he  was  a  bit  nervous,  even  with  Kazan 
muzzled.  Three  times  Kazan's  fangs  would 
have  sunk  deep  in  his  flesh  had  it  not  been  for 
the  babiche.  And  if  the  thongs  about  his 
jaws  should  slip,  or  break — . 

Sandy  followed  up  the  thought  with  a 
smashing  blow  that  landed  on  Kazan's  head, 
and  once  more  the  old  battler  fell  limp  upon 
the  sand.  McTrigger's  breath  was  coming  in 
quick  gasps.  He  was  almost  winded.  Not 
until  the  club  slipped  from  his  hand  did  he 
realize  how  desperate  the  fight  had  been.  Be- 
fore Kazan  recovered  from  the  blow  that  had 
stunned  him  Sandy  examined  the  muzzle  and 
strengthened  it  by  adding  another  babiche 


292  KAZAN 

thong.  Then  he  dragged  Kazan  to  a  log  that 
high  water  had  thrown  up  on  the  shore  a  few 
yards  away  and  made  the  end  of  the  babiche 
rope  fast  to  a  dead  snag.  After  that  he 
pulled  his  canoe  higher  up  on  the  sand,  and  be- 
gan to  prepare  camp  for  the  night. 

For  some  minutes  after  Kazan's  stunned 
senses  had  become  normal  he  lay  motionless, 
watching  Sandy  McTrigger.  Every  bone  in 
his  body  gave  him  pain.  His  jaws  were  sore 
and  bleeding.  His  upper  lip  was  smashed 
where  the  club  had  fallen-  One  eye  was  al- 
most closed.  Several  times  Sandy  came  near, 
much  pleased  at  what  he  regarded  as  the  good 
results  of  the  beating.  Each  time  he  brought 
the  club.  The  third  time  he  prodded  Kazan 
with  it,  and  the  dog  snarled  and  snapped 
savagely  at  the  end  of  it.  That  was  what 
Sandy  wanted — it  was  an  old  trick  of  the  dog- 
filaver.  Instantly  he  was  using  the  club  again, 
until  with  a  whining  cry  Kazan  slunk  under 
the  protection  of  the  snag  to  which  he  was 
fastened.  He  could  scarcely  drag  himself. 
His  right  forepaw  was  smashed.  His  hind- 
quarters sank  under  him.  For  a  time  after 


SANDY'S  METHOD  298 

this  second  beating  he  could  not  have  escaped 
had  he  been  free. 

Sandy  was  in  unusually  good  humor. 

"I'll  take  the  devil  out  of  you  all  right,"  he 
told  Kazan  for  the  twentieth  time.  "There's 
nothin'  like  beatin's  to  make  dogs  an*  wimmin 
live  up  to  the  mark.  A  month  from  now 
you'll  be  worth  two  hundred  dollars  or  I'll 
skin  you  alive!" 

Three  or  four  times  before  dusk  Sandy 
worked  to  rouse  Kazan's  animosity.  But 
there  was  no  longer  any  desire  left  in  Kazan 
to  fight.  His  two  terrific  beatings,  and  th6 
crushing  blow  of  the  bullet  against  his  skull, 
had  made  him  sick.  He  lay  with  his  head  be- 
tween his  forepaws,  his  eyes  closed,  and  did 
not  see  McTrigger.  He  paid  no  attention  to 
the  meat  that  was  thrown  under  his  nose.  He 
did  not  know  when  the  last  of  the  sun  sank 
behind  the  western  forests,  or  when  the  dark- 
ness came.  But  at  last  something  roused 
him  from  his  stupor.  To  his  dazed  and  sick- 
ened brain  it  came  like  a  call  from  out  of  the 
far  past,  and  he  raised  his  head  and  listened. 
Out  on  the  sand  McTrigger  had  built  a  fire, 


294  KAZAN 

and  the  man  stood  in  the  red  glow  of  it  now, 
facing  the  dark  shadows  beyond  the  shore- 
line. He,  too,  was  listening.  What  had 
roused  Kazan  came  again  now — the  lost 
mourning  cry  of  Gray  Wolf  far  out  on  the 
plain. 

With  a  whine  Kazan  was  on  his  feet,  tug- 
ging at  the  babiche.  Sandy  snatched  up  his 
club,  and  leaped  toward  him. 

"Down,  you  brute!"  he  commanded. 

In  the  firelight  the  club  rose  and  fell  with 
ferocious  quickness.  When  McTrigger  re- 
turned to  the  fire  he  was  breathing  hard  again. 
He  tossed  his  club  beside  the  blankets  he  had 
spread  out  for  a  bed.  It  was  a  different 
looking  club  now.  It  was  covered  with  blood 
and  hair. 

"Guess  that'll  take  the  spirit  out  of  him," 
he  chuckled.  "  It'll  do  that— or  kill  'im!" 

Several  times  that  night  Kazan  heard  Gray 
Wolf's  call.  He  whined  softly  in  response, 
fearing  the  club.  He  watched  the  fire  until 
the  last  embers  of  it  died  out,  and  then  cau- 
tiously dragged  himself  from  under  the  snag. 
Two  or  three  times  he  trie**  to  stand  on  his 
feet,  but  fell  back  each  time.  His  legs  were 


SANDY'S  METHOD  295 

not  broken,  but  the  pain  of  standing  on  them 
was  excruciating.  He  was  hot  and  feverish. 
All  that  night  he  had  craved  a  drink  of  water. 
When  Sandy  crawled  out  from  between  his 
blankets  in  the  early  dawn  he  gave  him  both 
meat  and  water.  Kazan  drank  the  water, 
but  would  not  touch  the  meat.  Sandy  re- 
garded the  change  in  him  with  satisfaction. 
By  the  time  the  sun  was  up  he  had  finished 
his  breakfast  and  was  ready  to  leave.  He  ap- 
proached Kazan  fearlessly  now,  without  the 
club.  Untying  the  babiche  he  dragged  the 
dog  to  the  canoe.  Kazan  slunk  in  the  sand 
while  his  captor  fastened  the  end  of  the 
hide  rope  to  the  stern  of  the  canoe.  Sandy 
grinned.  What  was  about  to  happen  would 
be  fun  for  him.  In  the  Yukon  he  had  learned 
how  to  take  the  spirit  out  of  dogs. 

He  pushed  off,  bow  foremost.  Bracing 
himself  with  his  paddle  he  then  began  to  pull 
Kazan  toward  the  water.  In  a  few  moments 
Kazan  stood  with  his  forefeet  planted  in  the 
damp  sand  at  the  edge  of  the  stream.  For  a 
brief  interval  Sandy  allowed  the  babiche  to 
fall  slack.  Then  with  a  sudden  powerful 
pull  he  jerked  Kazan  out  into  the  water.  In- 


296  KAZAN 

stantly  he  sent  the  canoe  into  midstream, 
swung  it  quickly  down  with  the  current,  and 
began  to  paddle  enough  to  keep  the  babiche 
taut  about  his  victim's  neck.  In  spite  of  his 
sickness  and  injuries  Kazan  was  now  com- 
pelled to  swim  to  keep  his  head  above  water. 
In  the  wash  of  the  canoe,  and  with  Sandy's 
strokes  growing  steadily  stronger,  his  posi- 
tion became  each  moment  one  of  increasing 
torture.  At  times  his  shaggy  head  was  pulled 
completely  under  water.  At  others  Sandy 
would  wait  until  he  had  drifted  alongside,  and 
then  thrust  him  under  with  the  end  of  his' 
paddle.  He  grew  weaker.  At  the  end  of 
a  half-mile  he  was  drowning.  Not  until  then 
did  Sandy  pull  him  alongside  and  drag  him 
into  the  canoe.  The  dog  fell  limp  and  gasp- 
ing in  the  bottom.  Brutal  though  Sandy's 
methods  had  been,  they  had  worked  his  pur- 
pose. In  Kazan  there  was  no  longer  a  de- 
sire to  fight.  He  no  longer  struggled  for 
freedom.  He  knew  that  this  man  was  his 
master,  and  for  the  time  his  spirit  was  gone. 
All  he  desired  now  was  to  be  allowed  to  lie 
in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  out  of  reach  of 
the  club,  and  safe  from  the  water.  The  club 


SANDY'S  METHOD  297 

lay  between  him  and  the  man.  The  end  of  it 
was  within  a  foot  or  two  of  his  nose,  and  what 
he  smelled  was  his  own  blood. 

For  five  days  and  five  nights  the  journey 
down-stream  continued,  and  McTrigger's 
process  of  civilizing  Kazan  was  continued  in 
three  more  beatings  with  the  club,  and  another 
resort  to  the  water  torture.  On  the  morning 
of  the  sixth  day  they  reached  Red  Gold  City, 
and  McTrigger  put  up  his  tent  close  to  the 
river.  Somewhere  he  obtained  a  chain  for  Ka- 
zan, and  after  fastening  the  dog  securely  back 
of  the  tent  he  cut  off  the  babiche  muzzle. 

"You  can't  put  on  meat  in  a  muzzle,"  he  told 
his  prisoner.  "An*  I  want  you  to  git  strong 
— an'  fierce  as  hell.  I've  got  an  idee.  It's 
an  idee  you  can  lick  your  weight  in  wildcats. 
We'll  pull  off  a  stunt  pretty  soon  that'll  fill 
our  pockets  with  dust.  I've  done  it  afore,  and 
we  can  do  it  here.  Wolf  an'  dog — s'elp  me 
Gawd  but  it'll  be  a  drawin'  card!" 

Twice  a  day  after  this  he  brought  fresh  raw 
meat  to  Kazan.  Quickly  Kazan's  spirit  and 
courage  returned  to  him.  The  soreness  left 
his  limbs.  His  battered  jaws  healed.  And 
after  the  fourth  day  each  time  that  Sandy 


298  KAZAN 

came  with  meat  he  greeted  him  with  the 
challenge  of  his  snarling  fangs.  McTrigger 
did  not  beat  him  now.  He  gave  him  no  fish, 
no  tallow  and  meal — nothing  but  raw  meat. 
He  traveled  five  miles  up  the  river  to  bring 
in  the  fresh  entrail  of  a  caribou  that  had  been 
killed.  One  day  Sandy  brought  another 
man  with  him  and  when  the  stranger  came  a 
step  too  near  Kazan  made  a  sudden  swift  lunge 
at  him.  The  man  jumped  back  with  a  star- 
tled oath. 

"He'll  do/'  he  growled.  '"He's  lighter  by 
ten  or  fifteen  pounds  than  the  Dane,  but  he's 
got  the  teeth,  an'  the  quickness,  an'  he'll  give 
a  good  show  before  he  goes  under." 

"I'll  make  you  a  bet  of  twenty-five  per 
cent,  of  my  share  that  he  don't  go  under," 
offered  Sandy. 

"Done!"  said  the  other.     "How  long  be 
fore  he'll  be  ready?" 

Sandy  thought  a  moment. 

"Another  week,"  he  said.  "He  won't  have 
his  weight  before  then.  A  week  from  to-day, 
we'll  say.  Next  Tuesday  night.  Does  that 
suit  you,  Harker?" 

Harker  nodded. 


SANDY'S  METHOD  299 

"Next  Tuesday  night,"  he  agreed.  Then 
he  added,  "I'll  make  it  a  half  of  my  share  that 
the  Dane  kills  your  wolf-dog." 

Sandy  took  a  long  look  at  Kazan. 

"I'll  just  take  you  on  that,"  he  said.  Then, 
as  he  shook  Barker's  hand,  "I  don't  believe 
there's  a  dog  between  here  and  the  Yukon  that 
can  kiU  the  wolfl" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PROFESSOR   MCGILL 

RED  GOLD  CITY  was  ripe  for  a  night 
of  relaxation.  There  had  been  some 
gambling,  a  few  fights  and  enough  liquor  to 
create  excitement  now  and  then,  but  the  pres- 
ence of  the  mounted  police  had  served  to  keep 
things  unusually  tame  compared  with  events  a 
few  hundred  miles  farther  north,  in  the  Daw- 
son  country.  The  entertainment  proposed  by 
Sandy  McTrigger  and  Jan  Harker  met  with 
excited  favor.  The  news  spread  for  twenty 
miles  about  Red  Gold  City  and  there  had 
never  been  greater  excitement  in  the  town  than 
on  the  afternoon  and  night  of  the  big  fight. 
This  was  largely  because  Kazan  and  the  huge 
Dane  had  been  placed  on  exhibition,  each  dog 
in  a  specially  made  cage  of  his  own,  and  a 
fever  of  betting  began.  Three  hundred  men, 
each  of  whom  was  paying  five  dollars  to  see 
the  battle,  viewed  the  gladiators  through  the 

bars   of   their   cages.     Harker's   dog   was   a 

tm 


PROFESSOR  McGILL          301 

combination  of  Great  Dane  and  mastiff,  born 
in  the  North,  and  bred  to  the  traces.  Betting 
favored  him  by  the  odds  of  two  to  one.  Oc- 
casionally it  ran  three  to  one.  At  these  odds 
there  was  plenty  of  Kazan  money.  Those 
who  were  risking  their  money  on  him  were 
the  older  wilderness  men — men  who  had  spent 
their  lives  among  dogs,  and  who  knew  what 
the  red  glint  in  Kazan's  eyes  meant.  An  old 
Kootenay  miner  spoke  low  in  another's  ear: 

"I'd  bet  on  'im  even.  I'd  give  odds  if  I 
had  to.  He'll  fight  all  around  the  Dane. 
The  Dane  won't  have  no  method." 

"But  he's  got  the  weight,"  said  the  other 
dubiously.  "Look  at  his  jaws,  an'  his  shoul- 
ders—" 

"An*  his  big  feet,  an'  his  soft  throat,  an* 
the  clumsy  thickness  of  his  belly,"  interrupted 
the  Kootenay  man.  "For  Gawd's  sake,  man, 
take  my  word  for  it,  an'  don't  put  your  money 
on  the  Dane!" 

Others  thrust  themselves  between  them. 
At  first  Kazan  had  snarled  at  all  these  faces 
about  him.  But  now  he  lay  back  against  the 
boarded  side  of  the  cage  and  eyed  them  sul- 
lenly from  between  his  forepaws. 


302  KAZAN 

The  fight  was  to  be  pulled  off  in  Marker's 
place,  a  combination  of  saloon  and  cafe.  The 
benches  and  tables  had  been  cleared  out  and 
in  the  center  of  the  one  big  room  a  cage  ten 
feet  square  rested  on  a  platform  three  and  a 
half  feet  from  the  floor.  Seats  for  the  three 
hundred  spectators  were  drawn  closely  around 
this.  Suspended  just  above  the  open  top  of 
the  cage  were  two  big  oil  lamps  with  glass 
reflectors. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  Harker,  McTrig^ 
ger  and  two  other  men  bore  Kazan  to  the  arena 
by  means  of  the  wooden  bars  that  projected 
from  the  bottom  of  his  cage.  The  big  Dane 
was  already  in  the  fighting  cage.  He  stood 
blinking  his  eyes  in  the  brilliant  light  of  the 
reflecting  lamps.  He  pricked  up  his  ears 
when  he  saw  Kazan.  Kazan  did  not  show  his 
fangs.  Neither  revealed  the  expected  animos- 
ity. It  was  the  first  they  had  seen  of  each 
other,  and  a  murmur  of  disappointment  swept 
the  ranks  of  the  three  hundred  men.  The 
Dane  remained  as  motionless  as  a  rock  when 
Kazan  was  prodded  from  his  own  cage  into 
the  fighting  cage.  He  did  not  leap  or  snarl. 
He  regarded  Kazan  with  a  dubious  question- 


PROFESSOR  McGILL  308 

ing  poise  to  his  splendid  head,  and  then  looked 
again  to  the  expectant  and  excited  faces  of 
the  waiting  men.  For  a  few  moments  Ka- 
zan stood  stiff-legged,  facing  the  Dane. 
Then  his  shoulders  dropped,  and  he,  too, 
coolly  faced  the  crowd  that  had  expected  a 
fight  to  the  death.  A  laugh  of  derision  swept 
through  the  closely  seated  rows.  Catcalls, 
jeering  taunts  flung  at  McTrigger  and 
Harker,  and  angry  voices  demanding  their 
money  back  mingled  with  a  tumult  of  grow- 
ing discontent.  Sandy's  face  was  red  with 
mortification  and  rage.  The  blue  veins  in 
Harker's  forehead  had  swollen  twice  their 
normal  size.  He  shook  his  fist  in  the  face  of 
the  crowd,  and  shouted: 

"Wait!  Give  'em  a  chance,  you  dam* 
fools!" 

At  his  words  every  voice  was  stilled.  Ka- 
zan had  turned.  He  was  facing  the  huge 
Dane.  And  the  Dane  had  turned  his  eyes  to 
Kazan.  Cautiously,  prepared  for  a  lunge  or 
a  sidestep,  Kazan  advanced  a  little.  The 
Dane's  shoulders  bristled.  He,  too,  advanced 
upon  Kazan.  Four  feet  apart  they  stood 
rigid.  One  could  have  heard  a  whisper  in  the 


804  KAZAN 

room  now.  Sand^  and  Harker,  standing 
close  to  the  cage,  scarcely  breathed.  Splendid 
in  every  limb  and  muscle,  warriors  of  a  hun- 
dred fights,  and  fearless  to  the  point  of  death, 
the  two  half -wolf  victims  of  man  stood  fac- 
ing each  other.  None  could  see  the  question- 
ing look  in  their  brute  eyes.  None  knew  tha^ 
in  this  thrilling  moment  the  unseen  hand  of 
the  wonderful  Spirit  God  of  the  wilderness 
hovered  between  them,  and  that  one  of  its 
miracles  was  descending  upon  them.  It  was 
understanding.  Meeting  in  the  open — rivals 
in  the  traces — they  would  have  been  rolling 
in  the  throes  of  terrific  battle.  But  here  came 
that  mute  appeal  of  brotherhood.  In  the  final 
moment,  when  only  a  step  separated  them, 
and  when  men  expected  to  see  the  first  mad 
lunge,  the  splendid  Dane  slowly  raised  his 
head  and  looked  over  Kazan's  back  through 
the  glare  of  the  lights.  Harker  trembled,  and 
under  his  breath  he  cursed.  The  Dane's 
throat  was  open  to  Kazan.  But  between  the 
beasts  had  passed  the  voiceless  pledge  of  peace. 
Kazan  did  not  leap.  He  turned.  And  shoul- 
der to  shoulder — splendid  in  their  contempt 
of  man — they  stood  and  looked  through  the 


PROFESSOR  McGILL          305 

bars  of  their  prison  into  the  one  of  human 
faces. 

A  roar  burst  from  the  crowd — a  roar  of  an- 
ger, of  demand,  of  threat.  In  his  rage 
Harker  drew  a  revolver  and  leveled  it  at  the 
Dane.  Above  the  tumult  of  the  crowd  a 
single  voice  stopped  him. 

"Hold!"  it  demanded.  "Hold— in  the 
name  of  the  law!" 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Every 
face  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 
Two  men  stood  on  chairs  behind  the  last  row. 
One  was  Sergeant  Brokaw,  of  the  Royal 
Northwest  Mounted.  It  was  he  who  had 
spoken.  He  was  holding  up  a  hand,  com- 
manding silence  and  attention.  On  the  chair 
beside  him  stood  another  man.  He  was  thin, 
with  drooping  shoulders,  and  a  pale  smooth 
face — a  little  man,  whose  physique  and  hol- 
low cheeks  told  nothing  of  the  years  he  had 
spent  close  up  along  the  raw  edge  of  the  Arc- 
tic. It  was  he  who  spoke  now,  while  the  ser- 
geant held  up  his  hand.  His  voice  was  low 
and  quiet: 

"I'll  give  the  owners  five  hundred  dollars 
for  those  dogs,"  he  said. 


306  KAZAN 

Every  man  in  the  room  heard  the  offer. 
Harker  looked  at  Sandy.  For  an  instant 
their  heads  were  close  together. 

"They  won't  fight,  and  they'll  make  good 
team-mates,"  the  little  man  went  on.  "I'll 
give  the  owners  five  hundred  dollars." 

Harker  raised  a  hand. 

"Make  it  six,"  he  said.  "Make  it  six  and 
they're  yours." 

The  little  man  hesitated.     Then  he  nodded. 

"I'll  give  you  six  hundred,"  he  agreed. 

Murmurs  of  discontent  rose  throughout 
the  crowd.  Harker  climbed  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform. 

"We  ain't  to  blame  because  they  wouldn't 
fight,"  he  shouted,  "but  if  there's  any  of  you 
small  enough  to  want  your  money  back  you 
can  git  it  as  you  go  out.  The  dogs  laid  down 
on  us,  that's  all.  We  ain't  to  blame." 

The  little  man  was  edging  his  way  between 
the  chairs,  accompanied  by  the  sergeant  of 
police.  With  his  pale  face  close  to  the  sap- 
ling bars  of  the  cage  he  looked  at  Kazan  and 
the  big  Dane. 

"I  guess  we'll  be  good  friends,"  he  said,  and 
he  spoke  so  low  that  only  the  dogs  heard  his 


PROFESSOR  McGILL  307 

voice.  "It's  a  big  price,  but  we'll  charge  it 
to  the  Smithsonian,  lads.  I'm  going  to  need 
a  couple  of  four-footed  friends  of  your  moral 
caliber." 

And  no  one  knew  why  Kazan  and  the  Dane 
drew  nearer  to  the  little  scientist's  side  of  the 
cage  as  he  pulled  out  a  big  roll  of  bills  and 
counted  out  six  hundred  dollars  for  Harker 
and  Sandy  McTrigger. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ALONE   IN   DARKNESS 

NEVER  had  the  terror  and  loneliness  of 
blindness  fallen  upon  Gray  Wolf  as  in 
the  days  that  followed  the  shooting  of  Kazan 
and  his  capture  by  Sandy  McTrigger.  For 
hours  after  the  shot  she  crouched  in  the  bush 
back  from  the  river,  waiting  for  him  to  come 
to  her.  She  had  faith  that  he  would  come, 
as  he  had  come  a  thousand  times  before,  and 
she  lay  close  on  her  belly,  sniffing  the  air,  and 
whining  when  it  brought  no  scent  of  her  mate. 
Day  and  night  were  alike  an  endless  chaos  of 
darkness  to  her  now,  but  she  knew  when  the 
sun  went  down.  She  sensed  the  first  deepen- 
ing shadows  of  evening,  and  she  knew  that  the 
stars  were  out,  and  that  the  river  lay  in  moon- 
light. It  was  a  night  to  roam,  and  after  a 
time  she  moved  restlessly  about  in  a  small  cir- 
cle on  the  plain,  and  sent  out  her  first  inquir- 
ing call  for  Kazan.  Up  from  the  river  came 
the  pungent  odor  of  smoke,  and  instinctively 

308 


ALONE  IN  DARKNESS        309 

she  knew  that  it  was  this  smoke,  and  the  near- 
ness of  man,  that  was  keeping  Kazan  from  her. 
But  she  went  no  nearer  than  that  first  circle 
made  by  her  padded  feet.  Blindness  had 
taught  her  to  wait.  Since  the  day  of  the  bat- 
tle on  the  Sun  Rock,  when  the  lynx  had  de- 
stroyed her  eyes,  Kazan  had  never  failed  her. 
Three  times  she  called  for  him  in  the  early 
night.  Then  she  made  herself  a  nest  under 
a  banskian  shrub,  and  waited  until  dawn. 

Just  how  she  knew  when  night  blotted  out 
the  last  glow  of  the  sun,  so  without  seeing  she 
knew  when  day  came.  Not  until  she  felt  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  on  her  back  did  her  anxiety 
overcome  her  caution.  Slowly  she  moved 
toward  the  river,  sniffing  the  air  and  whining. 
There  was  no  longer  the  smell  of  smoke  in 
the  air,  and  she  could  not  catch  the  scent  of 
man.  She  followed  her  own  trail  back  to  the 
sand-bar,  and  in  the  fringe  of  thick  bush  over- 
hanging the  white  shore  of  the  stream  she 
stopped  and  listened.  After  a  little  she 
scrambled  down  and  went  straight  to  the  spot 
where  she  and  Kazan  were  drinking  when  the 
shot  came.  And  there  her  nose  struck  the 
sand  still  wet  and  thick  with  Kazan's  blood. 


310  KAZAN 

She  knew  it  was  the  blood  of  her  mate,  foi 
the  scent  of  him  was  all  about  her  in  the  sand, 
mingled  with  the  man-smell  of  Sandy  Mc- 
Trigger.  She  sniffed  the  trail  of  his  body  to 
the  edge  of  the  stream,  where  Sandy  had 
dragged  him  to  the  canoe.  She  found  the 
fallen  tree  to  which  he  had  been  tied.  And 
then  she  came  upon  one  of  the  two  clubs  that 
Sandy  had  used  to  beat  wounded  Kazan  into 
submissiveness.  It  was  covered  with  blood 
and  hair,  and  all  at  once  Gray  Wolf  lay  back 
on  her  haunches  and  turned  her  blind  face  to 
the  sky,  and  there  rose  from  her  throat  a  cry 
for  Kazan  that  drifted  for  miles  on  the  wings 
of  the  south  wind.  Never  had  Gray  Wolf 
given  quite  that  cry  before.  It  was  not  the 
"call"  that  comes  with  the  moonlit  nights,  and 
neither  was  it  the  hunt-cry,  nor  the  she-wolf's 
yearning  for  matehood.  It  carried  with  it 
the  lament  of  death.  And  after  that  one  cry 
Gray  Wolf  slunk  back  to  the  fringe  of  bush 
over  the  river,  and  lay  with  her  face  turned 
to  the  stream. 

A  strange  terror  fell  upon  her.  She  had 
grown  accustomed  to  darkness,  but  never  be- 
fore had  she  been  alone  in  that  darkness. 


ALONE  IN  DARKNESS        311 

Always  there  had  been  the  guardianship  of 
Kazan's  presence.  She  heard  the  clucking 
sound  of  a  spruce  hen  in  the  bush  a  few  yards 
away,  and  now  that  sound  came  to  her  as  if 
from  out  of  another  world.  A  ground-mouse 
rustled  through  the  grass  close  to  her  fore- 
paws,  and  she  snapped  at  it,  and  closed  her 
teeth  on  a  rock.  The  muscles  of  her  shoulders 
twitched  tremulously  and  she  shivered  as  if 
stricken  by  intense  cold.  She  was  terrified 
by  the  darkness  that  shut  out  the  world  from 
her,  and  she  pawed  at  her  closed  eyes,  as  if 
she  might  open  them  to  light.  Early  in  the 
afternoon  she  wandered  back  on  the  plain. 
It  was  different.  It  frightened  her,  and  soon 
she  returned  to  the  beach,  and  snuggled  down 
under  the  tree  where  Kazan  had  lain.  She 
was  not  so  frightened  here.  The  smell  of  Ka- 
zan was  strong  about  her.  For  an  hour  she 
lay  motionless,  with  her  head  resting  on  the 
club  clotted  with  his  hair  and  blood.  Night 
found  her  still  there.  And  when  the  moon  and 
the  stars  came  out  she  crawled  back  into  the 
pit  in  the  white  sand  that  Kazan's  body  had 
made  under  the  tree. 

With  dawn  she  went  down  to  the  edge  of 


812  KAZAN 

the  stream  to  drink.  She  could  not  see  that 
the  day  was  almost  as  dark  as  night,  and  that 
the  gray-black  sky  was  a  chaos  of  slumbering 
storm.  But  she  could  smell  the  presence  of  it 
in  the  thick  air,  and  could  feel  the  forked 
flashes  of  lightning  that  rolled  up  with  the 
dense  pall  from  the  south  and  west.  The 
distant  rumbling  of  thunder  grew  louder,  and 
she  huddled  herself  again  under  the  tree. 
For  hours  the  storm  crashed  over  her,  arid  the 
rain  fell  in  a  deluge.  When  it  had  finished 
she  slunk  out  from  her  shelter  like  a  thing 
beaten.  Vainly  she  sought  for  one  last  scent 
of  Kazan.  The  club  was  washed  clean. 
Again  the  sand  was  white  where  Kazan's 
blood  had  reddened  it.  Even  under  the  tree 
there  was  no  sign  of  him  left. 

Until  now  only  the  terror  of  being  alone  in 
the  pit  of  darkness  that  enveloped  her  had 
oppressed  Gray  Wolf.  With  afternoon 
came  hunger.  It  was  this  hunger  that  drew 
her  from  the  sand-bar,  and  she  wandered  back 
into  the  plain.  A  dozen  times  she  scented 
game,  and  each  time  it  evaded  her.  Even  a 
ground-mouse  that  she  cornered  under  a  root, 
and  dug  out  with  her  paws,  escaped  her  fangs. 


ALONE  IN  DARKNESS        313 

Thirty-six  hours  before  this  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf  had  left  a  half  of  their  last  kill 
a  mile  of  two  farther  back  on  the  plain.  The 
kill  was  one  of  the  big  barren  rabbits,  and 
Gray  Wolf  turned  in  its  direction.  She  did 
not  require  sight  to  find  it.  In  her  was  de- 
veloped to  its  finest  point  that  sixth  sense  of 
the  animal  kingdom,  the  sense  of  orientation, 
and  as  straight  as  a  pigeon  might  have  winged 
its  flight  she  cut  through  the  bush  to  the  spot 
where  they  had  cached  the  rabbit.  A  white 
fox  had  been  there  ahead  of  her,  and  she  found 
only  scattered  bits  of  hair  and  fur.  What  the 
fox  had  left  the  moose-birds  and  bush- jays 
had  carried  away.  Hungrily  Gray  Wolf 
turned  back  to  the  river. 

That  night  she  slept  again  where  Kazan  had 
lain,  and  three  times  she  called  for  him  with- 
out answer.  A  heavy  dew  fell,  and  it 
drenched  the  last  vestige  of  her  mate's  scent 
out  of  the  sand.  But  still  through  the  day 
that  followed,  and  the  day  that  followed  that, 
blind  Gray  Wolf  clung  to  the  narrow  rim 
of  white  sand.  On  the  fourth  day  her  hunger 
reached  a  point  where  she  gnawed  the  bark 
from  willow  bushes.  It  was  on  this  day  that 


314  KAZAN 

she  made  a  discovery.  She  was  drinking, 
when  her  sensitive  nose  touched  something  in 
the  water's  edge  that  was  smooth,  and  bore 
a  faint  odor  of  flesh.  It  was  one  of  the  big 
northern  river  clams.  She  pawed  it  ashore, 
sniffing  at  the  hard  shell.  Then  she  crunched 
it  between  her  teeth.  She  had  never  tasted 
sweeter  meat  than  that  which  she  found  in- 
side, and  she  began  hunting  for  other  clams. 
She  found  many  of  them,  and  ate  until  she 
was  no  longer  hungry.  For  three  days  more 
she  remained  on  the  bar. 

And  then,  one  night,  the  call  came  to 
her.  It  set  her  quivering  with  a  strange 
new  excitement — something  that  may  have 
been  a  new  hope,  and  in  the  moonlight 
she  trotted  nervously  up  and  down  the 
shining  strip  of  sand,  facing  now  the 
north,  and  now  the  south,  and  then  the  east 
and  the  west — her  head  flung  up,  listening, 
as  if  in  the  soft  wind  of  the  night  she  was  try- 
ing to  locate  the  whispering  lure  of  a  wonder- 
ful voice.  And  whatever  it  was  that  came  to 
her  came  from  out  of  the  south  and  east. 
Off  there — across  the  barren,  far  beyond  the 
outer  edge  of  the  northern  timber-line — was 


ALONE  IN  DARKNESS        315 

home.  And  off  there,  in  her  brute  way,  she 
reasoned  that  she  must  find  Kazan.  The  call 
did  not  come  from  their  old  windfall  home  in 
the  swamp.  It  came  from  beyond  that,  and 
in  a  flashing  vision  there  rose  through  her 
blindness  a  picture  of  the  towering  Sun  Rock, 
of  the  winding  trail  that  led  to  it,  and  the 
cabin  on  the  plain.  It  was  there  that  blind* 
ness  had  come  to  her.  It  was  there  that  day 
had  ended,  and  eternal  night  had  begun.  And 
it  was  there  that  she  had  mothered  her  first- 
born. Nature  had  registered  these  things  so 
that  they  could  never  be  wiped  out  of  her 
memory,  and  when  the  call  came  it  was  from 
the  sunlit  world  where  she  had  last  known 
light  and  life  and  had  last  seen  the  moon  and 
the  stars  in  the  blue  night  of  the  skies. 

And  to  that  call  she  responded,  leaving  the 
river  and  its  food  behind  her — straight  out  into 
the  face  of  darkness  and  starvation,  no  longer 
fearing  death  or  the  emptiness  of  the  world 
she  could  not  see;  for  ahead  of  her,  two  hun- 
dred miles  away,  she  could  see  the  Sun  Rock, 
the  winding  trail,  the  nest  of  her  first-born 
between  the  two  big  rocks — and  Kazan! 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  LAST   OF   MC  TRIGGER 

SIXTY  miles  farther  north  Kazan  lay  at 
the  end  of  his  fine  steel  chain,  watching 
little  Professor  McGill  mixing  a  pail  of  tallow 
and  bran.  A  dozen  yards  from  him  lay  the 
big  Dane,  his  huge  jaws  drooling  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  unusual  feast  which  McGill  was 
preparing.  He  showed  signs  of  pleasure  when 
McGill  approached  him  with  a  quart  of  the 
mixture,  and  he  gulped  it  between  his  huge 
jaws.  The  little  man  with  the  cold  blue  eyes 
and  the  gray-blond  hair  stroked  his  back 
without  fear.  His  attitude  was  different 
when  he  turned  to  Kazan.  His  movements 
were  filled  with  caution,  and  yet  his  eyes  and 
his  lips  were  smiling,  and  he  gave  the  wolf-dog 
no  evidence  of  his  fear,  if  it  could  be  called 
fear. 

The  little  professor,  who  was  up  in  the 
north    country    for    the    Smithsonian    Insti- 

316 


THE  LAST  OF  McTRIGGER    317 

tution,  had  spent  a  third  of  his  life  among 
dogs.  He  loved  them,  and  understood  them. 
He  had  written  a  number  of  magazine  articles 
on  dog  intellect  that  had  attracted  wide  at-' 
tention  among  naturalists.  It  was  largely 
because  he  loved  dogs,  and  understood  them 
more  than  most  men,  that  he  had  bought  Ka- 
zan and  the  big  Dane  on  the  night  when  Sandy 
McTrigger  and  his  partner  had  tried  to  get 
them  to  fight  to  the  death  in  the  Red  Gold 
City  saloon.  The  refusal  of  the  two  splendid 
•beasts  to  kill  each  other  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  three  hundred  men  who  had  assembled  to 
witness  the  fight  delighted  him.  He  had  al- 
ready planned  a  paper  on  the  incident. 
Sandy  had  told  him  the  story  of  Kazan's  cap- 
ture, and  of  his  wild  mate,  Gray  Wolf,  and 
the  professor  had  asked  him  a  thousand  ques- 
tions. But  each  day  Kazan  puzzled  him  more. 
No  amount  of  kindness  on  his  part  could  bring 
a  responsive  gleam  in  Kazan's  eyes.  Not 
once  did  Kazan  signify  a  willingness  to  be- 
come friends.  And  yet  he  did  not  snarl  at 
McGill,  or  snap  at  his  hands  when  they  came 
within  reach.  Quite  frequently  Sandy  Mc- 
Trigge**  came  over  to  the  little  cabin  where 


318  KAZAN 

McGill  was  staying,  and  three  times  Kazan 
leaped  at  the  end  of  his  chain  to  get  at  him, 
and  his  white  fangs  gleamed  as  long  as  Sandy 
was  in  sight.  Alone  with  McGill  he  became 
quiet.  Something  told  him  that  McGill  had 
come  as  a  friend  that  night  when  he  and  the 
big  Dane  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the 
cage  that  had  been  built  for  a  slaughter  pen. 
Away  down  in  his  brute  heart  he  held  McGill 
apart  from  other  men.  He  had  no  desire  to 
harm  him.  He  tolerated  him,  but  showed 
none  of  the  growing  affection  of  the  huge 
Dane.  It  was  this  fact  that  puzzled  McGill. 
He  had  never  before  known  a  dog  that  he 
could  not  make  love  him. 

To-day  he  placed  the  tallow  and  bran  be- 
fore Kazan,  and  the  smile  in  his  face  gave  way 
to  a  look  of  perplexity.  Kazan's  lips  had 
drawn  suddenly  back.  A  fierce  snarl  rolled 
deep  in  his  throat.  The  hair  along  his  spine 
stood  up.  His  muscles  twitched.  Instinc- 
tively the  professor  turned.  Sandy  McTrig- 
ger  had  come  up  quietly  behind  him.  His 
brutal  face  wore  a  grin  as  he  looked  at  Ka- 
zan. 

"It's  a  fool  job — tryin'  to  make  friends  with 


THE  LAST  OF  McTRIGGER    319 

him"  he  said.  Then  he  added,  with  a  sudden 
interested  gleam  in  his  eyes,  "When  you 
starting" 

"With  first  frost,"  replied  McGill.  "It 
ought  to  come  soon.  I'm  going  to  join  Ser- 
geant Conroy  and  his  party  at  Fond  du  Lac 
by  the  first  of  October." 

"And  you're  going  up  to  Fond  du  Lac — 
alone?"  queried  Sandy.  "Why  don't  you  take 
a  man?" 

The  little  professor  laughed  softly. 

"Why?"  he  asked.  "I've  been  through  the 
Athabasca  waterways  a  dozen  times,  and 
know  the  trail  as  well  as  I  know  Broad- 
way. Besides,  I  like  to  be  alone.  And  the 
work  isn't  too  hard,  with  the  currents  all  flow- 
ing to  the  north  and  east." 

Sandy  was  looking  at  the  Dane,  with  his 
back  to  McGill.  An  exultant  gleam  shot  for 
an  instant  into  his  eyes. 

"You're  taking  the  dogs?" 

"Yes." 

Sandy  lighted  his  pipe,  and  spoke  like  one 
strangely  curious. 

"Must  cost  a  heap  to  take  these  trips 
o'  yourn,  don't  it?" 


§20  KAZAN 

"My  last  cost  about  seven  thousand  dollars. 
This  will  cost  five,"  said  McGill. 

"Gawd!"  breathed  Sandy.  "An'  you  carry 
all  that  along  with  you!  Ain't  you  afraid — 
something  might  happen — ?" 

The  little  professor  was  looking  the  other 
way  now.  The  carelessness  in  his  face  and 
manner  changed.  His  blue  eyes  grew  a  shade 
darker.  A  hard  smile  which  Sandy  did  not 
see  hovered  about  his  lips  for  an  instant 
Then  he  turned,  laughing. 

"I'm  a  very  light  sleeper,"  he  said.  "A 
footstep  at  night  rouses  me.  Even  a  man's 
oreathing  awakes  me,  when  I  make  up  my 
mind  that  I  must  be  on  my  guard.  And,  be- 
sides"—  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  blue- 
steeled  Savage  automatic — "I  know  how  to 
use  this"  He  pointed  to  a  knot  in  the  wall 
of  the  cabin.  "Observe,"  he  said.  Five  times 
he  fired  at  twenty  paces,  and  when  Sandy  went 
up  to  look  at  the  knot  he  gave  a  gasp.  There 
was  one  jagged  hole  where  the  knot  had  been. 

"Pretty  good,"  he  grinned.  "Most  men 
couldn't  do  better'n  that  with  a  rifle." 

When  Sandy  left,  McGill  followed  him 
with  a  suspicious  gleam  in  his  eyes,  and  a  curi 


THE  LAST  OF  McTRIGGER    321 

ous  smile  on  his  lips.  Then  he  turned  to  Ka- 
zan. 

"Guess  you've  got  him  figgered  out  about 
right,  old  man,"  he  laughed  softly.  "I  don't 
blame  you  very  much  for  wanting  to  get  him 
by  the  throat.  Perhaps — " 

He  shoved  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
and  went  into  the  cabin.  Kazan  dropped  his 
head  between  his  forepaws,  and  lay  still,  with 
wide-open  eyes.  It  was  late  afternoon,  early 
in  September,  and  each  night  brought  now 
the  first  chill  breaths  of  autumn.  Kazan 
watched  the  last  glow  of  the  sun  as  it  faded 
out  of  the  southern  skies.  Darkness  always 
followed  swiftly  after  that,  and  with  dark- 
ness came  more  fiercely  his  wild  longing  for 
freedom.  Night  after  night  he  had  gnawed 
at  his  steel  chain.  Night  after  night  he  had 
watched  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  and  had 
listened  for  Gray  Wolf's  call,  while  the  big 
Dane  lay  sleeping.  To-night  it  was  colder 
than  usual,  and  the  keen  tang  of  the  wind  thai 
came  fresh  from  the  west  stirred  him  strangely. 
It  set  his  blood  afire  with  what  the  Indians  call 
the  Frost  Hunger.  Lethargic  summer  was 
gone  and  the  days  and  nights  of  hunting  were 


322  KAZAN 

at  hand.  He  wanted  to  leap  out  into  free- 
dom and  run  until  he  was  exhausted,  with 
Gray  Wolf  at  his  side.  He  knew  that  Gray 
Wolf  was  off  there — where  the  stars  hung 
low  in  the  clear  sky,  and  that  she  was  waiting,. 
He  strained  at  the  end  of  his  chain,  and 
whined.  All  that  night  he  was  restless — 
more  restless  than  he  had  been  at  any  time  be- 
fore. Once,  in  the  far  distance,  he  heard  a 
cry  that  he  thought  was  the  cry  of  Gray  Wolf, 
and  his  answer  roused  McGill  from  deep  sleep. 
It  was  dawn,  and  the  little  professor  dressed 
himself  and  came  out  of  the  cabin.  With  sat- 
isfaction he  noted  the  exhilarating  snap  in  the 
air.  He  wet  his  fingers  and  held  them  above 
his  head,  chuckling  when  he  found  the  wind 
had  swung  into  the  north.  He  went  to  Ka- 
zan, and  talked  to  him.  Among  other  things 
he  said,  "This'll  put  the  black  flies  to  sleep, 
Kazan.  A  day  or  two  more  of  it  and  we'll 
start." 

Five  days  later  McGill  led  first  the  Dane, 
and  then  Kazan,  to  a  packed  canoe.  Sandy 
McTrigger  saw  them  off,  and  Kazan  watched 
for  a  chance  to  leap  at  him.  Sandy  kept  his 
distance,  and  McGill  watched  the  two  with  a 


THE  LAST  OF  McTRIGGER    323 

thought  that  set  the  blood  running  swiftly 
behind  the  mask  of  his  careless  smile.  They 
had  slipped  a  mile  down-stream  when  he  leaned 
over  and  laid  a  fearless  hand  on  Kazan's  head. 
Something  in  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  in 
the  professor's  voice,  kept  Kazan  from  a  de- 
sire to  snap  at  him.  He  tolerated  the  friend- 
ship with  expressionless  eyes  and  a  motionless 
body. 

"I  was  beginning  to  fear  I  wouldn't  have 
much  sleep,  old  boy,"  chuckled  McGill  am- 
biguously, "but  I  guess  I  can  take  a  nap  now 
and  then  with  you  along!" 

He  made  camp  that  night  fifteen  miles  up 
the  lake  shore.  The  big  Dane  he  fastened  to 
a  sapling  twenty  yards  from  his  small  silk 
tent,  but  Kazan's  chain  he  made  fast  to  the 
butt  of  a  stunted  birch  that  held  down  the 
tent-flap.  Before  he  went  into  the  tent  for 
the  night  McGill  pulled  out  his  automatic  and 
examined  it  with  care. 

For  three  days  the  journey  continued  with- 
out a  mishap  along  the  shore  of  Lake  Atha- 
basca. On  the  fourth  night  McGill  pitched 
his  tent  in  a  clump  of  banskian  pine  a  hundred 
yards  back  from  the  water.  All  that  day  the 


824  KAZAN 

wind  had  come  steadily  from  behind  them,  and 
for  at  least  a  half  of  the  day  the  professor  had 
been  watching  Kazan  closely.  From  the  west 
there  had  now  and  then  come  a  scent  that 
stirred  him  uneasily.  Since  noon  he  had 
sniffed  that  wind.  Twice  McGill  had  heard 
him  growling  deep  in  his  throat,  and  once, 
when  the  scent  had  come  stronger  than  usual, 
he  had  bared  his  fangs,  and  the  bristles  stood 
up  along  his  spine.  For  an  hour  after  strik- 
ing camp  the  little  professor  did  not  build  a 
fire,  but  sat  looking  up  the  shore  of  the  lake 
through  his  hunting  glass.  It  was  dusk  when 
he  returned  to  where  he  had  put  up  his  tent 
and  chained  the  dogs.  For  a  few  moments 
he  stood  unobserved,  looking  at  the  wolf-dog. 
Kazan  was  still  uneasy.  He  lay  facing  the 
west.  McGill  made  note  of  this,  for  the  big 
Dane  lay  behind  Kazan — to  the  east.  Under 
ordinary  conditions  Kazan  would  have  faced 
him.  He  was  sure  now  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  west  wind.  A  little  shiver  ran 
up  his  back  as  he  thought  of  what  it  might  be. 
Behind  a  rock  he  built  a  very  small  fire,  and 
prepared  supper.  After  this  he  went  into  the 
tent,  and  when  he  came  out  he  carried  a  blanket 


THE  LAST  OF  McTRIGGER    325 

under  his  arm.  He  chuckled  as  he  stood  for 
a  moment  over  Kazan. 

"We're  not  going  to  sleep  in  there  to-night, 
old  boy,"  he  said.  "I  don't  like  what  you've 
found  in  the  west  wind.  It  may  be  a — 
thunder-storm!"  He  laughed  at  his  joke,  and 
buried  himself  in  a  clump  of  stunted  banskians 
thirty  paces  from  the  tent.  Here  he  rolled 
himself  in  his  blanket,  and  went  to  sleep. 

It  was  a  quiet  starlit  night,  and  hours  after- 
ward Kazan  dropped  his  nose  between  his 
forepaws  and  drowsed.  It  was  the  snap  of 
a  twig  that  roused  him.  The  sound  did  not 
awaken  the  sluggish  Dane  but  instantly  Ka- 
zan's head  was  alert,  his  keen  nostrils  sniffing 
the  air.  What  he  had  smelled  all  day  was 
heavy  about  him  now.  He  lay  still  and  quiv- 
ering. Slowly,  from  out  of  the  banskians  be- 
hind the  tent,  there  came  a  figure.  It  was  not 
the  little  professor.  It  approached  cautiously, 
with  lowered  head  and  hunched  shoulders,  and 
the  starlight  revealed  the  murderous  face  of 
Sandy  McTrigger.  Kazan  crouched  low. 
He  laid  his  head  flat  between  his  forepaws. 
His  long  fangs  gleamed.  But  he  made  no 
sound  that  betrayed  his  concealment  under  t, 


826  KAZAN 

thick  banskian  shrub.  Step  by  step  Sandy  ap- 
proached, and  at  last  he  reached  the  flap  of 
the  tent.  He  did  not  carry  a  club  or  a  whip 
in  his  hand  now.  In  the  place  of  either  of 
those  was  the  glitter  of  steel.  At  the  door  to 
the  tent  he  paused,  and  peered  in,  his  back 
to  Kazan. 

Silently,  swiftly — the  wolf  now  in  every 
movement,  Kazan  came  to  his  feet.  He  for- 
got the  chain  that  held  him.  Ten  feet  away 
stood  the  enemy  he  hated  above  all  others  he 
had  ever  known.  Every  ounce  of  strength 
in  his  splendid  body  gathered  itself  for  the 
spring.  And  then  he  leaped.  This  time  the 
chain  did  not  pull  him  back,  almost  neckL 
broken.  Age  and  the  elements  had  weakened 
the  leather  collar  he  had  worn  since  the  days 
of  his  slavery  in  the  traces,  and  it  gave  way 
with  a  snap.  Sandy  turned,  and  in  a  second 
leap  Kazan's  fangs  sank  into  the  flesh  of  his 
arm.  With  a  startled  cry  the  man  fell,  and  as 
they  rolled  over  on  the  ground  the  big  Dane's 
deep  voice  rolled  out  in  thunderous  alarm  as 
he  tugged  at  his  leash.  In  the  fall  Kazan's 
hold  was  broken.  In  an  instant  he  was  on 
his  feet,  ready  for  another  attack.  And  then 


THE  LAST  OF  McTRIGGER    327 

the  change  came.  He  was  free.  The  collar 
was  gone  from  his  neck.  The  forest,  the  stars, 
the  whispering  wind  were  all  about  him. 
Here  were  men,  and  off  there  was — Gray 
Wolf!  His  ears  dropped,  and  he  turned 
swiftly,  and  slipped  like  a  shadow  back  into 
the  glorious  freedom  of  his  world. 

A  hundred  yards  away  something  stopped 
him  for  an  instant.  It  was  not  the  big  Dane's 
voice,  but  the  sharp  crack — crack — crack,  of 
the  little  professor's  automatic.  And  above 
that  sound  there  rose  the  voice  of  Sandy  Mc- 
Trigger  in  a  weird  and  terrible  cry. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AN   EMPTY   WORLD 

MELE  after  miie  Kazan  went  on.  For  a 
time  he  was  oppressed  by  the  shivering 
note  of  death  that  had  come  to  him  in  Sandy 
McTrigger's  cry,  and  he  slipped  through  the 
banskians  like  a  shadow,  his  ears  flattened,  his 
tail  trailing,  his  hindquarters  betraying  that 
curious  slinking  quality  of  the  wolf  and  dog 
stealing  away  from  danger.  Then  he  came 
out  upon  a  plain,  and  the  stillness,  the  billion 
stars  in  the  clear  vault  of  the  sky,  and  the 
keen  air  that  carried  with  it  a  breath  of  the 
Arctic  barrens  made  him  alert  and  question- 
ing. He  faced  the  direction  of  the  wind. 
Somewhere  off  there,  far  to  the  south  and 
west,  was  Gray  Wolf.  For  the  first  time  in 
many  weeks  he  sat  back  on  his  haunches  and 
gave  the  deep  and  vibrant  call  that  echoed 
weirdly  for  miles  about  him.  Back  in  the 
banskians  the  big  Dane  heard  it,  and  whined. 
From  over  the  still  body  of  Sandy  McTrigger 


AN  EMPTY  WORLD  329 

the  little  professor  looked  up  with  a  white 
tense  face,  and  listened  for  a  second  cry.  But 
instinct  told  Kazan  that  to  that  first  call  there 
would  be  no  answer,  and  now  he  struck  out 
swiftly,  galloping  mile  after  mile,  as  a  dog 
follows  the  trail  of  its  master  home.  He  did 
not  turn  back  to  the  lake,  nor  was  his  direc- 
tion toward  Red  Gold  City.  As  straight  as 
he  might  have  followed  a  road  blazed  by  the 
hand  of  man  he  cut  across  the  forty  miles  of 
plain  and  swamp  and  forest  and  rocky  ridge 
that  lay  between  him  and  the  McFarlane.  All 
that  night  he  did  not  call  again  for  Gray 
Wolf.  With  him  reasoning  was  a  process 
brought  about  by  habit — by  precedent — and 
as  Gray  Wolf  had  waited  for  him  many  times 
before  he  knew  that  she  would  be  waiting  for 
him  now  near  the  sand-bar. 

By  dawn  he  had  reached  the  river,  within 
three  miles  of  the  sand-bar.  Scarcely  was  the 
sun  up  when  he  stood  on  the  white  strip  of 
sand  where  he  and  Gray  Wolf  had  come  down 
to  drink.  Expectantly  and  confidently  he 
looked  about  him  for  Gray  Wolf,  whining 
softly,  and  wagging  his  tail.  He  began  to 
search  for  her  scent,  but  rains  had  washed 


330  KAZAN 

even  her  footprints  from  the  clean  sand.  All 
that  day  he  searched  for  her  along  the  river 
and  out  on  the  plain.  He  went  to  where  they 
had  killed  their  last  rabbit.  He  sniffed  at 
the  bushes  where  the  poison  baits  had  hung. 
Again  and  again  he  sat  back  on  his  haunches 
and  sent  out  his  mating  cry  to  her.  And 
slowly,  as  he  did  these  things,  nature  was  work- 
ing in  him  that  miracle  of  the  wild  which  the 
Crees  have  named  the  "spirit  call."  As  it  had 
worked  in  Gray  Wolf,  so  now  it  stirred  the 
blood  of  Kazan.  With  the  going  of  the  sun, 
and  the  sweeping  about  him  of  shadowy  night, 
he  turned  more  and  more  to  the  south  and 
east.  His  whole  world  was  made  up  of  the 
trails  over  which  he  had  hunted.  Beyond 
those  places  he  did  not  know  that  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  existence.  And  in  that  world, 
small  in  his  understanding  of  things,  was  Gray 
Wolf.  He  could  not  miss  her.  That  world, 
in  his  comprehension  of  it,  ran  from  the  Mc- 
Farlane  in  a  narrow  trail  through  the  forests 
and  over  the  plains  to  the  little  valley  from 
which  the  beavers  had  driven  them.  If  Gray 
Wolf  was  not  here — she  was  there,  and  tire- 
lessly he  resumed  his  quest  of  her. 


AN  EMPTY  WORLD  331 

Not  until  the  stars  were  fading  out  of  the 
sky  again,  and  gray  day  was  giving  place  to 
night,  did  exhaustion  and  hunger  stop  him. 
He  killed  a  rabbit,  and  for  hours  after  he  had 
feasted  he  lay  close  to  his  kill,  and  slept.  Then 
he  went  on. 

The  fourth  night  he  came  to  the  little 
valley  between  the  two  ridges,  and  under  the 
stars,  more  brilliant  now  in  the  chill  clear- 
ness of  the  early  autumn  nights,  he  followed 
the  creek  down  into  their  old  swamp  home. 
It  was  broad  day  when  he  reached  the  edge  of 
the  great  beaver  pond  that  now  completely 
surrounded  the  windfall  under  which  Gray 
Wolf's  second-born  had  come  into  the  world. 
Broken  Tooth  and  the  other  beavers  had 
wrought  a  big  change  in  what  had  once  been 
his  home  and  Gray  Wolf's,  and  for  many 
minutes  Kazan  stood  silent  and  motionless  at 
the  edge  of  the  pond,  sniffing  the  air  heavy 
with  the  unpleasant  odor  of  the  usurpers. 
Until  now  his  spirit  had  remained  unbroken. 
Footsore,  with  thinned  sides  and  gaunt  head, 
he  circled  slowly  through  the  swamp.  All 
that  day  he  searched.  And  his  crest  lay  flat 
now,  and  there  was  a  hunted  look  in  the  droop 


832  KAZAN 

of  his  shoulders  and  in  the  shifting  look  of  his 
eyes.     Gray  Wolf  was  gone. 

Slowly  nature  was  impinging  that  fact 
upon  him.  She  had  passed  out  of  his  world 
and  out  of  his  life,  and  he  was  filled  with  a 
loneliness  and  a  grief  so  great  that  the  forest 
seemed  strange,  and  the  stillness  of  the  wild 
a  thing  that  now  oppressed  and  frightened 
him.  Once  more  the  dog  in  him  was  master- 
ing the  wolf.  With  Gray  Wolf  he  had  pos- 
sessed the  world  of  freedom.  Without  her, 
that  world  was  so  big  and  strange  and  empty 
that  it  appalled  him.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
he  came  upon  a  little  pile  of  crushed  clam- 
shells on  the  shore  of  the  stream.  He  sniffed 
at  them — turned  away — went  back,  and 
sniffed  again.  It  was  where  Gray  Wolf  had 
made  a  last  feast  in  the  swamp  before  continu- 
ing south.  But  the  scent  she  had  left  behind 
was  not  strong  enough  to  tell  Kazan,  and  for  a 
second  time  he  turned  away.  That  night  he 
slunk  under  a  log,  and  cried  himself  to  sleep. 
Deep  in  the  night  he  grieved  in  his  uneasy 
slumber,  like  a  child.  And  day  after  day,  and 
night  after  night,  Kazan  remained  a  slinking 
creature  of  the  big  swamp,  mourning  for  the 


AN  EMPTY  WORLD  333 

one  creature  that  had  brought  him  out  of  chaos 
into  light,  who  had  filled  his  world  for  him, 
and  who,  in  going  from  him,  had  taken  from 
this  world  even  the  things  that  Gray  Wolf 
had  lost  in  her  blindness. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  CALL  OF  SUN  BOCK 

IN  the  golden  glow  of  the  autumn  sun  there 
came  up  the  stream  overlooked  by  the  Sun 
Rock  one  day  a  man,  a  woman  and  a  child  in 
a  canoe.  Civilization  had  done  for  lovely 
Joan  what  it  had  done  for  many  another  wild 
flower  transplanted  from  the  depths  of  the 
wilderness.  Her  cheeks  were  thin.  Her 
blue  eyes  had  lost  their  luster.  She  coughed, 
and  when  she  coughed  the  man  looked  at  her 
with  love  and  fear  in  his  eyes.  But  now, 
slowly,  the  man  had  begun  to  see  the  trans- 
formation, and  on  the  day  their  canoe  pointed 
up  the  stream  and  into  the  wonderful  valley 
that  had  been  their  home  before  the  call  of  the 
distant  city  came  to  them,  he  noted  the  flush 
gathering  once  more  in  her  cheeks,  the  fuller 
redness  of  her  lips,  and  the  gathering  glow 
of  happiness  and  content  in  her  eyes.  He 
laughed  softly  as  he  saw  these  things,  and  he 
blessed  the  forests.  In  the  canoe  she  had 

834 


THE  CALL  OF  SUN  ROCK     335 

leaned  back,  with  her  head  almost  against  his 
shoulder,  and  he  stopped  paddling  to  draw 
her  to  him,  and  run  his  fingers  through  the 
soft  golden  masses  of  her  hair. 

"You  are  happy  again,  Joan,"  he  laughed 
joyously.  "The  doctors  were  right.  You 
are  a  part  of  the  forests." 

"Yes,  I  am  happy,"  she  whispered,  and  sud- 
denly there  came  a  little  thrill  into  her  voice, 
and  she  pointed  to  a  white  finger  of  sand  run- 
ning out  into  the  stream.  "Do  you  remember 
— years  and  years  ago,  it  seems — that  Kazan 
left  us  here?  She  was  on  the  sand  over  there, 
calling  to  him.  Do  you  remember?"  There 
was  a  little  tremble  about  her  mouth,  and  she 
added,  "I  wonder — where  they — have  gone." 

The  cabin  was  as  they  had  left  it.  Only  the 
crimson  bakneesh  had  grown  up  about  it,  and 
shrubs  and  tall  grass  had  sprung  up  near  its 
walls.  Once  more  it  took  on  life,  and  day 
by  day  the  color  came  deeper  into  Joan's 
cheeks,  and  her  voice  was  filled  with  its  old  wild 
sweetness  of  song.  Joan's  husband  cleared 
the  trails  over  his  old  trap-lines,  and  Joan  and 
the  little  Joan,  who  romped  and  talked  now, 
transformed  the  cabin  into  home.  One  night 


836  KAZAN 

the  man  returned  to  the  cabin  late,  and  when 
he  came  in  there  was  a  glow  of  excitement  in 
Joan's  blue  eyes,  and  a  tremble  in  her  voice 
when  she  greeted  him. 

"Did  you  hear  it?"  she  asked.  "Did  you 
hear —  the  call?" 

He  nodded,  stroking  her  soft  hair. 

"I  was  a  mile  back  in  the  creek  swamp," 
he  said.  "I  heard  itl" 

Joan's  hands  clutched  his  arms. 

"It  wasn't  Kazan,"  she  said.  "I  would 
recognize  his  voice.  But  it  seemed  to  me  it 
was  like  the  other — the  call  that  came  that 
morning  from  the  sand-bar,  his  mate?" 

The  man  was  thinking.  Joan's  fingers 
tightened.  She  was  breathing  a  little  quickly. 

"Will  you  promise  me  this?"  she  asked, 
"Will  you  promise  me  that  you  will  never  hunt 
or  trap  for  wolves?" 

"I  had  thought  of  that,"  he  replied.  "I 
thought  of  it — after  I  hearr  the  call.  Yes, 
I  will  promise." 

Joan's  arms  stole  up  about  his  neck. 

"We  loved  Kazan,"  she  whispered.  "And 
you  might  kill  him — or  her/3 

Suddenly  she  stopped.    Both  listened.     The 


THE  CALL  OF  SUN  ROCK     337 

door  was  a  little  ajar,  and  to  them  there  came 
again  the  wailing  mate-call  of  the  wolf. 
Joan  ran  to  the  door.  Her  husband  followed. 
Together  they  stood  silent,  and  with  tense 
breath  Joan  pointed  over  the  starlit  plain. 

"Listen!  Listen!"  she  commanded.  "It's 
her  cry,  and  it  came  from  the  Sun  Rock!" 

She  ran  out  into  the  night,  forgetting  that 
the  man  was  close  behind  her  now,  forgetting 
that  little  Joan  was  alone  in  her  bed.  And  to 
them,  from  miles  and  miles  across  the  plain, 
there  came  a  wailing  cry  in  answer — a  cry  that 
seemed  a  part  of  the  wind,  and  that  thrilled 
Joan  until  her  breath  broke  in  a  strange  sob. 

Farther  out  on  the  plain  she  went  and  then 
stopped,  with  the  golden  glow  of  the  autumn 
moon  and  the  stars  shimmering  in  her  hair 
and  eyes.  It  was  many  minutes  before  the 
cry  came  again,  and  then  it  was  so  near  that 
loan  put  her  hands  to  her  mouth,  and  her 
ury  rang  out  over  the  plain  as  in  the  days  of 
old. 

"Kazan!    Kazan!    Kazan!" 

At  the  top  of  the  Sun  Rock,  Gray  Wolf- 
gaunt  and  thinned  by  starvation — heard  the 
woman's  cry,  and  the  call  that  was  in  her  throat 


338  KAZAN 

died  away  in  a  whine.  And  to  the  north  a 
swiftly  moving  shadow  stopped  for  a  moment, 
and  stood  like  a  thing  of  rock  under  the  star- 
light. It  was  Kazan.  A  strange  fire  leaped 
through  his  body.  Every  fiber  of  his  brute 
understanding  was  afire  with  the  knowledge 
that  here  was  home.  It  was  here,  long  ago, 
that  he  had  lived,  and  loved,  and  fought — 
and  all  at  once  the  dreams  that  had  grown 
faded  and  indistinct  in  his  memory  came  back 
to  him  as  real  living  things.  For,  coming  to 
him  faintly  over  the  plain,  Jie  heard  Joan's 
voice! 

In  the  starlight  Joan  stood,  tense  and  white, 
when  from  out  of  the  pale  mists  of  the  moon- 
glow  he  came  to  her,  cringing  on  his  belly, 
panting  and  wind-run,  and  with  a  strange 
whining  note  in  his  throat.  And  as  Joan  went 
to  him,  her  arms  reaching  out,  her  lips  sobbing 
his  name  over  and  over  again,  the  man  stood 
and  looked  down  upon  them  with  the  wonder 
of  a  new  and  greater  understanding  in  his  face. 
He  had  no  fear  of  the  wolf-dog  now.  And 
as  Joan's  arms  hugged  Kazan's  great  shaggy 
head  up  to  her  he  heard  the  whining  gasping 
joy  of  the  beast  and  the  sobbing  whispering 


THE  CALL  OF  SUN  ROCK     339 

voice  of  the  girl,  and  with  tensely  gripped 
hands  he  faced  the  Sun  Rock. 

"My  Gawd,"  he  breathed.  "I  believe— it's 
so—" 

As  if  in  response  to  the  thought  in  his  mind, 
there  came  once  more  across  the  plain  Gray 
Wolf's  mate-seeking  cry  of  grief  and  of  lone- 
liness. Swiftly  as  though  struck  by  a  lash 
Kazan  was  on  his  feet — oblivious  of  Joan's 
touch,  of  her  voice,  of  the  presence  of  the  man. 
In  another  instant  he  was  gone,  and  Joan 
flung  herself  against  her  husband's  breast,  and 
almost  fiercely  took  his  face  between  her  two 
hands. 

"Now  do  you  believe?"  she  cried  pantingly. 
"Now  do  you  believe  in  the  God  of  my  world 
— the  God  I  have  lived  with,  the  God  that 
gives  souls  to  the  wild  things,  the  God  that 
• — that  has  brought — us,  all — together — once 
more — home!" 

His  arms  closed  gently  about  her. 

"I  believe,  my  Joan,"  he  whispered. 

"And  you  understand — now — what  it  means, 
'Thou  shalt  not  kill'?" 

"Except  that  it  brings  us  b'fe — yes,  I  un- 
derstand," he  replied. 


340  KAZAN 

Her  warm  soft  hands  stroked  his  face. 
Her  blue  eyes,  filled  with  the  glory  of  the 
stars,  looked  up  into  his. 

"Kazan  and  she — you  and  I — and  the  babyl 
Are  you  sorry — that  we  came  back?"  she 
asked. 

So  close  he  drew  her  against  his  breast  that 
she  did  not  hear  the  words  he  whispered  in  the 
soft  warmth  of  her  hair.  And  after  that,  for 
many  hours,  they  sat  in  the  starlight  in  front 
of  the  cabin  door.  But  they  did  not  hear 
again  that  lonely  cry  from  the  Sun  Rock 
Joan  and  her  husband  understood. 

"He'll  visit  us  again  to-morrow,"  the  mai* 
said  at  last.  "Come,  Joan,  let  us  go  to  bed." 

Together  they  entered  the  cabin. 

And  that  night,  side  by  side,  Kazan  and 
Gray  Wolf  hunted  again  in  the  moonlit  plain. 


THE  END 


James  Oliver  Curwood's 

POWERFUL  STORIES  OF  THE  GREAT  NORTH 
EACH  AND  EVERY  ONE  A  THRILLER 


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THE  BLACK  HUNTER 

THE  ANCIENT  HIGHWAY 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  COURAGE 

THE  ALASKAN 

THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 

THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

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Cappy  Ricks  Special  Cappy  Ricks  Comes  Back 

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Two  Made  a  World  The  Understanding  Heart 

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Wasteland 


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Within  the  space  of  a  few  years,  Sinclair  Lewis  has  become  one  of 
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ANN  VICKERS 

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ARROWSMITH 

The  story  of  a  country  doctor  whose  search  for  the  truth  led  him  to  the 
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BABBITT 

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thing of  himself.  He  was  a  booster  and  a  joiner,  but  behind  all  of  his 
activities  was  a  wistful  wonder  as  to  what  life  holds. 

MAIN    STREET 

An  absorbing  drama  of  real  life  in  the  average  small  town  as  seen 
through  the  eyes  of  an  impressionable  young  girl  who  married  the 
local  doctor. 


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